As May began, if Lynne was off work, she was posing for Eric, either in the house or the garden. If she was at the hospital, Eric was in the studio, painting with renewed vigor. The Aherns saw little of the Snyders, except for the women, on the job. Eric used all available light, and as days grew longer, he eschewed conventional errands, but did take time to eat meals with Lynne. Otherwise she did their shopping, unless he was begging her to pose for him.
The poses weren’t more than her tasks around their home; she was reticent to shed more than her sweater. Eric also painted an Ahern family portrait, Fran and her daughters the first of many, he told Lynne to tell Renee and Sam. By the middle of May, Eric had plenty of daylight to work with, and enough sketches of his wife to keep him busy all summer. One evening, the Aherns came over for dinner, the night warm, the conversation jovial. Eric broke with tradition, leading the couple to the studio, as Lynne prepared dessert. Both Samuel and Renee were silenced by the gathering canvases, mostly of Eric’s wife, but he had specifically asked for their opinion about the one of Fran, Sally, and Helene. Renee fought tears, nodding her approval. Sam approached the painting, not touching it, but getting as close as he could. Helene rested in her mother’s arms, Sally standing on Fran’s other side. Fran’s smile was focused on the baby, but she leaned against her eldest. Eric smiled, then embraced Renee, who trembled. But Sam remained in front of the canvas, shaking his head.
“Do you think she’ll like it?” Eric said softly, gripping Renee, who had started to cry.
Sam nodded, then looked back at his friend. “Actually, I don’t know what she’ll think, other than you’re a genius and….” Sam returned to the painting, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “All the rest of my family’ll want something like this, but I suppose I could tell them it’s just for Frannie, she is the oldest.”
“I’d be happy to paint any and all Aherns.” Eric kissed Renee’s forehead. “Your clan too. God knows I could use the practice. I’m still not sure about them.”
He was telling the truth; it was one thing to paint a hawk, for Eric knew that animal inside and out. People were harder, for they weren’t static, like creatures and barns. While at times their needs were as basic as hawks and mice, human natures were littered with vice. Love too, for that was what Eric had depicted in Fran and her daughters. But the other elements remained.
Not that Eric wanted to delve into the lesser aspects of humanity, but he couldn’t ignore them. And until he had an opportunity to paint a variety of persons would he feel capable of expanding upon his next idea, which was Lynne in more intimate situations, although not quite as she thought he wanted to paint her. Then Eric smiled, as Renee started to chuckle. Lynne stood in the doorway, staring at them. Eric caught her gaze, which was slightly reprimanding, but Sam was still lost in the image of his sister and nieces.
Lynne joined Sam, gently patting his shoulder. “He does pretty good work for a nature artist.”
“Huh, um, what?”
“Sam, you ready for pie?”
He stared at Eric’s wife, then to the painter. Then he stepped back from the easel. “Yes, pie. Uh-huh, of course. Renee, you want some pie?”
“Yeah Sam, pie would be great. Lynne, you need any help?”
“Always,” Lynne smiled.
Renee kissed her husband’s cheek, then linked her arm through the crook of Lynne’s elbow. “Don’t be too long, you two, or you won’t get first dibs on the pie.”
Eric nodded as the women left the studio. For over a minute Sam didn’t notice he and Eric were alone, then Sam gazed at Eric. Returning to Fran’s smile, Sam then glanced at the doorway. “Uh, what’d I miss?”
“Pie, if we’re not careful. C’mon, or they’ll be wagging their fingers at us.”
Sam again stared at Eric, then back at his infant niece. Helene was much bigger now; Sam and Renee had just attended her baptism, and the buzz had been about the painting Eric had given to Fran and Louie, as well as the sketch of Fran nursing Helene. Sam’s older relatives thought it a shocking drawing, but most of those younger had been awed by Eric’s talent, and that he would expend it on a stranger. Yet, Eric had treated Fran as warmly as he did Sam and Renee, and had just offered to paint any of Sam’s clan. Sam peered at his sister and her girls; they looked lifelike, not trapped on canvas. Sam could sense Helene’s warmth, Sally’s striking maturity for a young teenager, and Fran’s weariness, but it was hedged in familial joy intensified by where she sat in her brother’s kitchen, as a gifted artist blithely captured the bookends of her children. The painting served as a mirror to an alternate life that Sam and Renee would never experience, but then Eric and Lynne wouldn’t either. Then Sam faced Eric. “How can you say you need the practice? This’s….”
Eric shrugged. “You love to cook, but you often make the same things, saying you’ve found a new recipe. Maybe we just want it to be perfect, paintings for me, pork chops for you. Or chicken, my God Sam, you make the best chicken cacciatore I’ve ever had. Are you sure you’re not part Italian?”
“Eric….”
“No, I mean it. Yeah, they’re….” He smiled. “Good. I can paint people, but let me tell you, for a while, when I started painting Lynne, I wasn’t so sure. Sunsets are easier, they’re stationary. Faces and limbs aren’t.”
“But you don’t just capture their faces and bodies. You get inside them, I mean….” Sam hesitated, then continued. “It’s like I see how tired Frannie is, but her smile, she’s also….” He didn’t want to put words to it, for the pain was heavier than he could bear.
“What I saw in your sister does hurt, you’re right. She’d love to….” Eric inhaled deeply. “It was Louie’s decision, wasn’t it?”
Sam nodded, but couldn’t speak to the sentiment, not because he felt his sister and her husband were being bad Catholics by not continuing to have children until Fran simply could not bear any more. Fran hadn’t been so blatant with him, but she had alluded to their youngest sister Joan, who mentioned it to another sibling, and it came back to Sam via one of his brother-in-laws; Louie and Fran were actually going to avoid having sex, or at least as long as Louie could hold out. And if he couldn’t, well, the rumor was that he was going to buy rubbers, not where they lived, of course. He’d drive out of town, where no one would recognize him. Seven kids were enough, Louie Canfield had decided. If God sent him to purgatory, well, then it would be what Louie probably deserved.
But how would Eric know that? What kind of eyes did that man possess, sussing out such personal details. Then Sam shivered, thinking about the frightened mice, and that ever-changing barn. Fran thought it was full of equipment, like Lynne did. Sally had said it was for cows and horses, pigs and goats, sheep and…. Sam had smiled, for Sally knew little about country life, yet Eric had managed to evoke a different response from every person who had seen it. Stanford had attested to that, which had made Sam proud to own that canvas, and again surprised that the art dealer hadn’t sold it out from under them. Maybe Sam was still suspicious of that New Yorker, even if he’d raved over Sam’s pork chops.
Then Sam stared at Eric. Sam did make the same meals, although the recipes weren’t identical. But Renee never complained, and it was hard to ruin chicken or a chop. Then Sam gazed at the paintings of Eric’s wife. Lynne either knitted or made pie, or she squatted in the garden, attacking weeds or nurturing new plants. Her expressions were varied, as if Eric was experimenting on her, but not painfully. He was using her, but only as a model, for all of these facets of Lynne Snyder seemed…. Not as realistic as Fran, Sally, and Helene. These had been for practice, and Sam would bet the worth of his barn painting that Eric would never allow them to be shown publically. Not that they weren’t good, but they were like the dishes that Sam served his wife, before he invited others over for dinner. He always tried out a recipe on Renee first, even if he said otherwise.
“You’ll never show these, will you?” Sam spoke softly, even if no one else was around.
“Probably n
ot.” Eric smiled. “Just like you won’t give that entire custard recipe to Lynne.”
Sam grimaced, then nodded. He always used real vanilla, but had written imitation vanilla on the card for Lynne. Now he wasn’t sure why he had fudged it, what had he been trying to protect? What was Eric attempting to work out in these paintings of his wife that were good, but didn’t come close to what he had conveyed in Fran’s family portrait. Was it the missing children, or….
“I use real vanilla,” Sam blurted loudly, wondering if Lynne could hear him. Where was she anyway, or Renee? They had departed several minutes ago, leaving the men to talk, but Sam didn’t want to say more, or know anything else. He wanted to beg Lynne’s forgiveness, then sweep all of that, and what sat in this studio, to the side. He would eat some pie, with custard that he had brought, then take his wife home and….
“We know. Stanford’s cook told us. But he didn’t tell her that your recipe is the best he’s ever had.” Then Eric laughed. “He might have mentioned Lynne’s pie though. He was pretty irked that we left it with you two that night. Said he would’ve had a second piece if he’d known we weren’t bringing it home.”
Sam didn’t pay attention to what Eric revealed in language, other than the couple knew he had deceived them, but didn’t seem to care. Eric was still chuckling, then Renee hollered that the men had better hurry up, she was on her second piece, and most of the custard was gone. Eric slapped Sam’s shoulder, then motioned to the door. “Let’s go. I don’t want Renee on my case the rest of the night.”
Sam nodded, then stepped to the doorway. He was out of the studio first, and already to the bird bath, as Eric closed the door, locking it behind him.
Stanford wasn’t told about the pictures of Lynne, but he was warned that Eric would spend most of that summer painting family portraits of the Aherns, and of the Nolans, Renee’s relatives. Stanford had coolly accepted the news, wondering if Lynne had nixed posing for her husband. He only asked if the exhibit in autumn would go ahead as scheduled. To his surprise, Eric backpedaled, saying he was too involved with his current series, that perhaps the next show would take place in the new year. Stanford did inquire about that, but didn’t get much more from Eric than a polite but vague excuse, just as Stanford never got an honest answer about where Eric had been earlier in the year. Dealer and artist didn’t speak again until mid-June, when Eric invited Stanford to see his new works, but Stanford couldn’t get away from New York. Eric didn’t press, telling Lynne that Stanford wasn’t pleased, but that Eric didn’t want to miss another exhibit. She asked what paintings he would show, as he also informed her all those he had done of her wouldn’t be seen. He smiled, then shrugged. “Well, I’m not gonna put the Aherns and Nolans on display.”
They spoke of this sitting on the patio, sipping wine after dinner. Summer days were at their longest, but Eric had quit work early, for Lynne had been home. They had spent the afternoon cataloguing the growing collection of Sam and Renee’s relatives, whom had gladly acquiesced to Eric’s request. He had visited some at their homes, the rest coming to Sam and Renee’s, posing in their backyard as Eric rapidly sketched their likenesses. Resemblances were strong within both clans, although none had the depth of Sam’s blue eyes, or the radiance of Renee’s stop-sign peepers. Eric was nearly finished with one of the last canvases, that of Sam’s parents, Joe and Marjorie. Surreptitiously he had sketched them a few weeks back, and the painting would be Sam and Renee’s Christmas present to them.
Eric squeezed Lynne’s hand, then drained his glass. She smiled at him, and he closed his eyes; with the fading sun behind her, all of her beauty shone, and he wanted to rush into the house, set up his easel, transferring this image from his brain to immortality. Then he chuckled. “I love you.”
“I love you too. What are you thinking?” she giggled, sipping her wine.
“Just how gorgeous you are. And how you don’t look a thing like an Ahern or a Nolan.”
She shook her hair, hanging loose along her back and shoulders. “What do I look like?”
A vision, he wanted to tell her, as light sparkled around her brown tresses, blowing in the breeze. Then she met his gaze. “Eric, what?”
A slightly burning sensation rippled through his belly. He had noticed it a few days ago, but chalked it up to indigestion. But this was different, for it ached, then spread into his lower guts. It made him stand, then walk along the gravel. He stopped, that one odd windowpane catching his attention. Eric stepped behind his wife, tenderly gripping her shoulders. “I’m glad I told Stanford to cancel the exhibit.”
She grasped his fingers. “You feel it, don’t you?”
He sighed. “Thought I did a few days ago, but I didn’t wanna accept it.”
“But now you do.” Lynne inhaled, then exhaled slowly. “At least this time you know it’s coming.”
He nodded, but wanted to tell her that he’d known it since he was in enough of his right mind to realize he was again a human being. Throughout spring, he had been waiting for a sign, hoping for one actually. He didn’t want to again leave without any hint of it occurring, especially not when they were making love. He had wanted to tell his wife that, but to speak of it seemed cruel, as if courting disaster. He gazed toward the studio. “I might be busy for the next several days.”
“Oh Eric, that soon?”
“I just don’t wanna leave anything unfinished.”
Again she squeezed his hands, then she released him. Then Lynne got up from her chair, standing beside him, stroking his face. “Can you tell when, I mean….”
“Not for sure. Maybe in another week or….”
She nodded, then kissed him. Her affection removed all of his anxieties, but he could feel hers. There was nothing he could do for her, other than to tell her he loved her. As he began to speak, she shook her head. “Let’s go inside. I’m tired.”
Her tone was weary, but not sad. Then she kissed him again, wrapping her arms around him, but not tightly. Eric gripped her, wondering if he would ever have control over his life. Lynne pulled away, then gathered their glasses. Setting a hand to shield her eyes, she stared at the last traces of sun. “I have to work the next four days. Will you finish by then?”
“The picture of Sam’s folks certainly, unless something comes up.”
Quickly she faced him. “Will it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Honestly honey, I have no idea.”
She nodded. “Renee asked if we wanted to spend the Fourth of July with them. I meant to tell you about it, just slipped my mind.”
“I don’t know. That’s a few weeks away.”
“It is. If I tell her no, she’ll understand, but she might ask….” Lynne again gazed westward, but the sun was now set. “I have no idea what Sam might say.”
“Neither do I.” Eric took the glasses from her hands. “Honey, I….”
She clutched his fingers around the cups, then met his gaze. To his surprise, her eyes were dry. “We can’t do anything about it Eric. What will be, will be.”
He nodded, then rubbed his cheek along hers. All the paintings he had done of her were stored in the extra room on the second floor. Maybe he would let Stanford show some of them, not that Eric would allow them to be sold. But they were the basis for images that lingered in the back of Eric’s mind, a series that while still not formed, was stirring within him as solidly as that painful burn. Then he winced. What he wanted to paint of Lynne would require her to bare herself, which perhaps would prove as agonizing as how she would weather his absence. His departure was looming; there was no manner in which he could stop it.
Chapter 17