The Hawk: Part Nine, Page 2

  A little girl snuggled beside her mother as Friday turned to Saturday. Renee wasn’t aware that Ann had joined them in bed until nearly four o’clock, but then Renee wasn’t sure when she and Sam had actually gone to sleep. Ann lay in the middle, but how had she gotten there, Renee wondered, her daughter’s small body warming her left side. All Friday afternoon and evening Renee had felt chilled, even when she curled next to Sam in bed. But Ann provided a different balm, although it had been hard for Renee to act like a mother when her heart seemed so broken. That pain again shot through Renee, yet Ann seemed to mute a good portion of it. Still, confusion swirled, as well as a need for the bathroom. Carefully Renee slipped out of bed, not bothering to put on her robe. She would return to this cozy nest as soon as possible.

  Minutes later she was back under the covers, cuddling with her daughter, who over the last several hours had been cemented as Renee’s offspring as though the last few weeks were a trial run. Would Paul appear differently as well, Renee mused, stroking Ann’s hair, which lay haphazardly across the pillow. Many considerations had crowded Renee’s thoughts as soon as Sam hung up the phone, looking sick to his stomach. The news still didn’t seem real, although Ann had never slept with them. Now it was as though Ann often snuck in this room, quietly cajoling one of her parents, probably Sam, Renee decided, to plop her in the middle of the bed. Renee was certain she would recall such an action, or maybe after yesterday’s events, Renee had been so altered that her past had simply been wiped away.

  She wanted to go to mass that morning. She also wanted to fly to Dallas, find where Lee Harvey Oswald was being kept, then shake him so thoroughly, perhaps slap him as she had Sam years ago. But no matter what Renee might do, the president would still be dead, a loss Renee had never considered occurring in her lifetime. It didn’t matter whether John Kennedy had been assassinated due to his faith or political views or an enemy’s hated. The reason for his death was known only to God, and the fallout was a dark curtain that instead of providing heat had wrapped the cold tightly around Renee. Yet now she felt warm, even if Ann was wriggling in her sleep. Renee released the little girl, who then scooted beside her father. And Sam was this child’s father, Renee observed, for unconsciously he placed his arm over his daughter, a smile creeping on his face.

  Renee blinked away tears; had Caroline and John-John known such parental comforts, even within the White House? John Junior had been a baby when his father was elected and that mansion was the only home he knew. Within a matter of days, weeks perhaps, he, his sister, and their mother would move to some other residence where they would live without…. Renee closed her eyes, concentrating on Sam and Ann’s breathing patterns. Sam’s were much slower, deeper, lasting. Renee would always sleep with her husband, but on what Renee might consider one of the darkest mornings of her life, she couldn’t ignore the sweetest gift in the guise of a little girl, not to mention the boy snoozing across the hall. Renee had heard Paul’s snores when she scurried back from the bathroom. Yet, how was all of this possible?

  Life, Renee decided, was a strange mix of the predictable constantly butting heads with the improbable. Husbands and wives woke together each day, but here she was with a child between her and Sam like she’d given birth to Ann herself. Renee still thought it slightly odd how quickly the kids had acclimated to this house, new parents, even with the small wobble of the station wagon. Renee had assumed that vehicle would set back Paul severely, yet once Laurie drove it away it was as Paul’s tender mind and delicate soul forgot those days with Beth and Roy. Or was that loss so painful Paul had chosen to block it out, and once the station wagon was no longer seen, it was as if his Colorado life had never happened. Would Caroline Kennedy heal in a similar manner? Renee didn’t think that would be possible, for her father had been a towering figure representing a nation and a religion. Jack Kennedy wasn’t equal to Pope Paul, but Catholics worldwide would never forget America’s first Catholic president.

  Renee wasn’t sure what had haunted her more upon learning this news; was it that fact, or that now Jackie was a widow? That issue was solely related to Renee’s status as a mother, made even more stark by the similarity of Paul and Ann’s ages to Caroline and John Junior. John-John would be three on Monday, while Caroline was nearly six; easily Renee recalled when Jack Kennedy had been elected, his son born shortly afterwards. That was only three years ago, three years! Renee stroked red hairs from Ann’s face, which looked perfectly at peace. She was cradled against Sam as if he’d been snuggling with her like this since the day they brought this child home from the hospital. How tremendously awful that Caroline would never again feel the security of her father’s love, and what a tragedy that John Junior would possess no memories of such a wonderful man.

  And how blessedly fortunate was it that Ann and Paul seemed to have escaped virtually unscathed from a comparable catastrophe. Renee wouldn’t pretend to understand why that was, although one day she might pose a query to Father Markham: why did God permit madness alongside miracles? Renee quietly took a deep breath, letting it out softly. Neither her husband nor daughter noticed, still slumbering peacefully. When they woke, Ann would continue to dwell in that calm state, or be relatively staid for a three-year-old. Sam, however, would assume the mantle of a husband, father, and mourning American. A Catholic American, Renee inhaled, exhaling a sense of extreme loss. But as she took another breath, a healing scent accompanied, that of a little girl in need of a bath. Last night Renee hadn’t felt up to the task. It had been enough trying to explain what had happened, then attempting to continue with normal duties while watching the television, but struggling to keep the children occupied. Renee had considered calling Lynne, but instead spent most of her telephone conversations with her mother and siblings, Sam’s family too. Frannie was especially downcast and Renee would call her later to see how she was faring.

  For now, Renee didn’t want to stir her family. In these fleeting moments, all was well, if not different. But renewal was a part of life, and sometimes it was painful. Renee prayed for Eric, who should be arriving home any day. How would Lynne tell him about what had happened, perhaps Sam, Marek, or Laurie could break the news. That news would linger beyond what any of them might want, yet, in those seconds, Renee could pretend yesterday’s events hadn’t occurred. Her life was this man, their daughter, and a little boy who was calling for his mother. Paul’s small voice echoed along the hall, then reached Renee’s bedroom door. She leaned forward, seeing him rubbing his eyes. Tears fell from hers as she nodded, then motioned for him. Paul ran to Renee’s side of the bed, then hopped up, stirring Sam and Ann. Paul hugged Renee as Ann mumbled something. Then Sam’s yawn made Paul giggle. Casually Renee wiped her face, but Sam reached for her cheek, removing what remained. He nodded, then gripped Ann, making her squeal in delight. The Ahern family didn’t leave that bed for many minutes as parents steadied themselves for another day of sorrow while children soaked up another day of familial love.

  Stanford met his father for lunch at their favorite restaurant, but few other diners joined them. The men spoke in low tones, only one topic on their minds. Well, Stanford couldn’t stop thinking about Laurie, but he talked of what had usurped practically the entire world’s attention. It wasn’t only America mourning a president, and Michael remarked upon this, wondering how Catholics across the globe were handling such a loss. Stanford gazed warily at his dad, who usually didn’t speak about religion. Then Stanford sighed heavily. Michael hadn’t asked where Laurie was, but before the day’s end, some sort of answer would need to be proffered.

  In the meantime, Stanford noted that he would call the Aherns, although Stanford didn’t give a timetable for that action. He’d considered contacting them that morning, but every time he went for the phone, he remembered Laurie’s tone from yesterday, picking up at Lynne’s. Laurie hadn’t merely expressed sadness, but a more debilitating sense, which Stanford had been feeling all week. Having Agatha back was good, in that Stanford’s home was orderl
y, but her bearing was that of a wounded woman. And when she left on Friday, Stanford had nearly escorted her to the subway station, for she had seemed to age suddenly, her shuffling steps like those his mother took before she became bedridden. Kennedy’s death didn’t only affect Catholics; he had reached across much of American society, now leaving great emptiness in his wake. The restaurant would normally be packed on a Saturday, yet Stanford could count on one hand the number of busy tables. It was as if the city was under siege, people staying within their homes, not willing to brave the attack.

  What kind of world would emerge, Stanford mused, as his father sipped coffee. Stanford had coffee as well, but would have preferred a stiff drink. Maybe later, then he sighed inwardly. He wanted to speak to Sam, also to Lynne, but to again call the Snyders’ house would arouse suspicion. He didn’t want to hear Laurie’s voice, or not that of a man so pained. Stanford merely wished to express his condolences to…. He frowned, then sighed aloud. The Aherns weren’t any more deserving of consolation than anyone else, yet Stanford couldn’t ignore his need to reach out to them as if they had personally known John Kennedy. He had voted for that man, but no one was apologizing to him. Yes, it was a terrible incident, and deserved an appropriate amount of deference. However, politicians were often targets for lunatics. That Kennedy was relatively young compounded the situation, his age and family and….

  Why did Stanford feel such loss; was it the manner in which Kennedy had been killed, that it had happened in bright sunshine, his wife beside him? Was it that more than a leader had been murdered, but hope in the guise of…. Stanford wanted to ask his father, but Michael looked tired. And as they never discussed such emotionally charged events, it would seem strange. Stanford could have hashed this out with Laurie, but Laurie…. Then Stanford stared at his father, who was now gazing at him. “What’d you say Dad?”

  “I asked if Laurie was in Brooklyn. Or is he still not feeling well?”

  Stanford shook, he couldn’t help it. “He’s, uh, he’s….” Then Stanford exhaled loudly. “He’s not here. He went to see Lynne.”

  Michael nodded like he already knew this, but had been waiting for confirmation. Stanford quickly wondered if his father had spoken with Agatha, or maybe he’d called Rose. Michael again sipped his coffee, then placed the mug on the table. “Are Eric and Lynne all right?”

  Stanford almost shrugged. He assumed Lynne was upset, but was her mood only tied to Kennedy’s death, or was Eric still missing? Then Stanford shook his head. “They’re okay. Eric has been….” Now Stanford trembled. “He’s not been well lately, so Laurie and I decided Lynne needed support. The Aherns have been busy, with the children you know, and now that Seth’s….” The words fell from Stanford’s tongue as though he fully believed all that Laurie had told him, what Lynne seemed to accept as well. Then Stanford stopped speaking, for his father was nodding, but not making eye contact. Laurie hadn’t tried to convince Stanford’s father of this hogwash had he?

  “It’s been such a hard time,” Michael said softly, finally meeting Stanford’s gaze. Michael’s face was ashen, how he’d appeared this time last year when Constance was still alive, but the end had been in sight. “Well, hopefully Eric will take this news all right, and everyone will be where they’re supposed to by year’s end.”

  Stanford nodded, but wasn’t sure if that was possible, not for the Snyders, nor for Laurie. Stanford had dreamed of his partner every night since Agatha had returned to work, dreams that at the time were pleasant, but upon reflection carried great pain. In the dreams, Stanford had accepted without question all Laurie had claimed, going as far as speaking to Lynne in depth about how this phenomenon had affected her life. But as soon as Stanford woke, the awful truth had returned like a smothering blanket. And this morning it had felt to suffocate him, yet he knew the reason for that additional anguish. A man much admired had been ripped away. What happened now was anyone’s guess.

  Suddenly Stanford felt ill and he stood from his chair. “I’ll be right back Dad.” Before Stanford could hear Michael’s reply, he was sprinting toward the men’s room, where he reached a toilet just as bile lurched up his throat. The taste was bitter and he closed his eyes for the room spun. Kneeling in front of the bowl, Stanford gripped cold porcelain. He shivered, then hoped his father wouldn’t come looking for him as he had at Eric’s exhibit this time last year. They had spoken about the world tour, which would continue through next March. Would Eric be home by then, Stanford wondered, not wishing to mull over where Laurie might be.

  Five minutes later, Stanford rejoined his father, who didn’t inquire about Stanford’s well-being. Perhaps Michael chalked it up to yesterday’s news, which wouldn’t trouble Stanford in the least. Much better that he had fallen ill due to that event than anything else. Michael paid the check and Stanford left a larger than usual tip. Then they exited the restaurant, hailing a cab for Michael’s building.

  Stanford spent the rest of the afternoon there, watching television, thinking about Laurie and Lynne, trying not to consider Eric. Michael sat beside him on the sofa, or he answered phone calls, most of which were from Stanford’s sisters. Yet, Michael didn’t ask his son if he wished to speak to Louise, Claire, or Melanie. At four o’clock, Stanford announced he should head home, that he wanted to talk to Sam Ahern. Michael told his son to give that man his best, and Stanford said he would. They didn’t exchange any undue affections; Michael walked Stanford to the front door, then told him they would speak in another day or so. Stanford nodded, then left his father’s apartment, heading to the elevator.

  It wasn’t until Stanford was in the taxi that he considered how odd it was that while he hadn’t spoken to any of his blood relatives, more than once he had made the point of needing to call Sam Ahern. Michael hadn’t questioned Stanford, which made Stanford wonder if his actions were so strange his father hadn’t known what to say or…. Yet, Michael was the most tactful man Stanford knew. If he had felt any sense of impropriety, he would have discreetly steered Stanford to whatever direction a father knew was best. The only personal aside Michael had made was concerning…. The cabbie pulled up in front of Stanford’s building and Stanford paid him, then walked into the lobby, which other than the doorman was deserted. That fellow appeared stricken and they nodded at one another, then Stanford headed to the stairs.

  Taking the elevator seemed too easy and he could use the exercise. Several floors later, Stanford was winded, and his steps along the hallway were slow. He reached his door, unlocked it, then stepped into the foyer, closing his door behind him, locking it again. The apartment was silent and cool, making Stanford shiver.

  He hung up his coat, then went into the kitchen, starting the kettle. A hot cup of tea would ease the chill, but as for the loneliness…. Stanford ignored that, considering what he would say to Sam. He hoped that man wouldn’t have the audacity to mention Eric; this call was merely about…. Was Eric dead, Stanford wondered. He shook his head; Laurie would have sounded far more morose if that was the case. According to Laurie, Eric was on his way home because Seth had left the hospital. Stanford felt a little queasy, but if nothing else, John Kennedy was the only casualty over which to worry.

  The kettle whistled and Stanford retrieved a cup and tea bag. Pouring the water, he inhaled the steam, which seemed to clear muddy thoughts. Stanford let the tea steep, then he threw the bag in the trash. He took the mug to the kitchen table, sitting against the wall where Laurie usually sat. Stanford did this without thinking, then he stared at the counter, appliances catching his eye.

  Typically on a Saturday afternoon, the men were milling about in this space, either reheating leftovers if they weren’t going out, or clearing up that morning’s dishes. Well, Laurie did the washing while Stanford looked over what parts of the newspaper he had saved for that moment. If they were staying in, they would share dinner at this table, then perhaps retire to the living room, where Stanford might read a book as Laurie did the same, or on occasion something on televis
ion might capture their attention. But Stanford didn’t want to turn on the TV; he’d heard enough about Kennedy for one day. More would be reported tomorrow, he was certain.

  He needed to call Sam, then…. The rest of the evening loomed like one black endless night. Stanford sighed, tried his tea, which was too hot to drink. A few leftovers remained in the fridge from Thursday; Stanford would heat those up when he grew hungry. He would call Sam, then drink his tea, then…. The silence overwhelmed Stanford, maybe he would turn on the television, try to find something unrelated to…. Loss had seeped into every crevice of Stanford’s life. Laurie was gone, Eric was too, and now another man had been shot dead. Placing his hands gingerly around the cup, Stanford wished for the heat to reach past his fingers, perhaps restarting his heart. He felt hollow inside and not even extending his condolences to Sam would warm him.

  Eric was out of Stanford’s reach and Laurie was…. Laurie was gone because Stanford had sent him away. But what was Stanford supposed to do with such ridiculous insinuations? And yet, if Stanford accepted that claim, everything that had troubled him regarding Eric would make perfect sense. Stanford shuddered as his hands grew warm from the tea cup. The reason his dreams had seemed so correct was that within those dreams, all of Stanford’s long-held misgivings were answered.

  Those questions had been swimming within his head since the first time he’d visited the Snyders years ago. Why had they chosen such a concealed property, in such poor condition no less? Yes, the studio was perfect for Eric, but the house had been in a derelict state, and Stanford had even waived a few commissions so the couple could finish the guest room to the dealer’s standards. Why had Eric been so fascinated with hawks, and why after that long absence in 1960 had Stanford thought Eric’s eyes were…. They hadn’t looked right since that day, Stanford would swear to it. Then there was Eric’s foot, which allegedly had been the impetus for that absence, although months later Lynne was pregnant. Too many details filled Stanford’s head, things he shouldn’t know, things that were strange when considered apart from one another, but when bound by a single explanation seemed reasonable. For, if Eric did turn into a hawk, then all these pieces made up one completed puzzle.

  Stanford closed his eyes, sighing in disgust. When he opened them, the emptiness was a stark reminder of the actual truth, which was that Seth had somehow convinced Laurie of a most harmful falsehood. Laurie had taken it a step further, persuading Lynne, allegedly Sam, Renee, and Marek too. Why had they all embraced this, this, this…. It was lunacy, for Stanford knew of no other way to describe it. It was madness and reality and…. What was real, he wondered, gripping the mug. Reality was John Kennedy lying in state in Washington. Reality was Lyndon Johnson as president, reality was a murder in Dallas having reached into practically every soul in this country, and how many more abroad. But how could that be real, even though Stanford had watched it unfold on television. Perhaps it was merely another cover-up for yet another conspiracy.

  Except that for as ugly as it was to accept, Stanford knew President Kennedy was indeed dead, that Lyndon Johnson was the new commander -in-chief, that Eric was…. And there the equation stopped, even if Stanford’s heart throbbed in his chest. If he could just accept that information, then after he spoke to Sam, he could call Lynne and tell Laurie to come home. How easy would it be, Stanford mused, toying with the cup’s handle. Just take a deep breath, empty all plausible notions from his mind, and…. Bile again crept northward, burning Stanford’s esophagus. He took a sip of tea, forcing it back down, as well as any possibility that Laurie had told him the truth. The truth was that Eric was hospitalized somewhere, that John Kennedy was dead, that America had a new leader, and God help them all. Stanford finished his tea, singeing his tongue in the process, but laying a soothing salve along Stanford’s teeming mind. His heart still ached, but once he called Sam, Stanford assumed the pain would be lessened. If it wasn’t, Stanford would simply make another cup of tea. And if he still wasn’t appeased, then Stanford would retreat to the living room and turn on the television. Better to drown one’s sorrows in a collective pool than to delve too deeply in one’s psyche, he permitted.

  Chapter 159