Explaining The Hawk (Part two)

 

Evening clouds from last night.

Sometimes things we accomplished in the past weren't for when we did, said, or wrote them. Sometimes those achievements are for NOW. Past Me gets the kudos today, not only for writing The Hawk, but for being patient. Because in a rare moment of living in three dimensions, I'm currently Past, Future, and Present Me, acknowledging why re-releasing The Hawk is vital RIGHT NOW.

(And as these odd snippets of clarity often go, I had no inkling of this two days ago when I wrote the previous post, lol.)

Years ago, maybe even before I wrote The Hawk, I followed a blog written by a young-ish mum named Sarah. She had a daughter named Eliot Rose, who one day told her mum that peace was just a lot of hopes put together. I found that wisdom so striking, and asked Sarah if I could thank Eliot in one of my novel's Liner Notes, and Sarah obliged. I put that here to preface the rest of my explanation, because currently in America and other places on this planet, hope for the future is all we have.

When I wrote The Hawk, it meant telling a long story about faith, injustice, bigotry, and ultimately healing. Set in the early 1960s, I covered topics relevant to that era; racism, The Cold War, The Korean War, and certainly aftereffects of World War II. President Kennedy's assassination and the murder of Malcolm X were included, as well as March on Selma. The cast of characters was stymied by the Cuban Missile Crisis, how just two decades after a planet-wide conflict a couple of world leaders could again throw all of Earth to the winds. At the time I wrote this saga, an administration with little regard to human rights was entering the White House, and perhaps my story was partly influenced by that uncaring group of Republicans.

When I chose to re-release The Hawk in ten installments, the idea that again America would be governed by such disreputable figures was unthinkable. I read through the entire series starting in mid-January of this year, completing it in September. At that point, I still hoped for a Democratic victory. I lobbied in my small sphere for Kamala Harris, wishing those with larger platforms were more vigorous in their campaigns, yet I was dismayed that celebrity endorsements seemed like nothing more than lip service. Now the United States is facing four years of.... The words I want to use are scathing and obscene, but I will refrain. Instead I will let the story of a man who turns into a hawk, his long-suffering wife, their friends and all who they meet remind any who chose to read this tale that biases are WRONG. Duplicity is EVIL. The insatiable quest for power at the expense of freedom is NOT the American way.

Those are big phrases and I'm just one person. But as Eliot Rose said, peace is just a lot of hopes put together. This planet requires peace in GARGANTUAN doses, but action matters too, and in addition to releasing these books over the next three years, I will do all I can to foster in my community and within my country the sense that policies the incoming administration wishes to employ are WHOLLY UNACCEPTABLE in an allegedly democratic nation. Because to remain silent or dismissive of such nefarious schemes is as wrong as those wishing to perpetrate them.

I'm hoping to release The Hawk Book One: Give Her My Love, in early December. In the meantime, here's an excerpt. Stay strong, stay involved! And enjoy a little of what I've been doing over the last dozen years, hehehe. 

 

 

 

She walked him to the back where easels stood. Stanford tried to gaze at the walls, the ceiling, even the floor, but his eyes were drawn to those canvases, all of which featured the woman still gripping his hand. Yet these pictures weren’t like any Stanford had previously seen, in part due to the subject. And because for the first time, Stanford couldn’t penetrate the model’s soul.

Previously Eric’s themes, be they hawks, mice, sunsets or barns, were transparent. But Lynne Snyder was an enigma, just like her husband, and Stanford was stunned at how this seemingly affable couple concealed such inner turmoil. Nothing about Lynne was obvious, other than her hobbies, and how much she was adored, which to Stanford was for the best. Eric’s background would be rich fodder for the newspapers once it became public knowledge. And eventually it would unless Eric never returned and his work faded into obscurity. That would be the only way for Eric and Lynne to maintain their privacy.

Then Stanford trembled; was that why he had left her? The dealer stared at Lynne, then swallowed hard. “I know about his father, is that where he is?”

She nodded, then motioned to the canvases. “He told me he didn’t want these displayed, mostly because he wasn’t sure I’d want them shown. But I’ll leave that up to you. If you’d like Lawrence to see them, that would be fine. Of course, I don’t know when Eric will be back, so I suppose you’re still looking at an exhibit next spring, but….”

“Lynne, why?” Then Stanford sighed. He knew why Eric had never spoken of his family; his mother was dead, his father in prison for murder. His father had committed other grievous crimes and Stanford felt sick to his stomach. “Do they know, the Aherns, about his dad?”

“Renee does. I’m sure she’s told Sam a little of it, but….” Lynne’s voice cracked, then she took a deep breath and continued. “He doesn’t know that’s why Eric’s foot’s damaged. Or if he does, he hasn’t brought it up with me.”

That had been what most turned Stanford’s stomach and again it made him wish to be ill. He glanced around the studio; it looked like Eric had planned to return, but with cold nights, these canvases should be in the house. “Are you going to leave these out here much longer?”

“Actually, I was going to ask you and Lawrence to help me take them in tonight. I wanted to show you these Stanford, I wanted you to see what he….” She paused, then composed herself. “Eric is a great painter, maybe you’re aware of it, but if not, I want you to know when he comes back he’ll need time to recover. After he does….”

“He can have all the time he needs Lynne, my God, of course. And yes, Laurie and I’ll help bring these inside.”

Stanford realized the slip as soon as he said it. Lynne gazed at him, but said nothing. Then she nodded as Renee called their names. “Time to eat,” Lynne said softly. “We can get to these after supper. In fact, Sam and Renee can help.”

“They’ve seen them, I take it?” Stanford spoke evenly, but sweat poured from him. How could he have been so careless, using Laurie instead of Lawrence?

“They saw them after he left. And they felt showing them to you was best.” She hesitated for seconds, then smiled. “If Eric’s angry, he shouldn’t have….”

“Left them for a nosy dealer to find.” Stanford chuckled, hoping she couldn’t hear his pounding heart. “I’ll tell him I badgered you mercilessly.”

“He’ll know we’re both liars, but he won’t argue about it. He’ll probably thank you for being a nag. He wants to show these, it was me he wanted to protect.”

Stanford wondered who was the biggest liar as he stared into Lynne’s cloudy eyes. “Of course. He loves you very much.”

“And I love him and these are just the tip of the iceberg, like the barn. Something’s waiting when he returns Stanford, if you’re willing to be patient with him and if….”

“Lynne, Mr. Taylor!” Renee hollered, then she stood at the studio doorway, but didn’t step inside. “It’s, uh, time. For supper,” she coughed.

Lynne nodded, then clasped Stanford’s hand. “We’re on our way. Tell Sam that afterwards Stanford and Lawrence will help us get all these into the house. Then we’ll reward ourselves with pie.”

“Oh, um, okay. Are you sure?” Renee stayed in the doorway.

“Uh-huh. Stanford, you ready to eat?”

He reacted at the sound of his name, but had also flinched when Lynne spoke it and Laurie’s together, although she deliberately said Lawrence. “Yes, I’m, um, starving.” Suddenly he was and he gripped Lynne’s hand. Then he eased the pressure, but she squeezed back, smiling at him.

“I’ll tell Sam you’re on your way. And about the, uh, after supper task.” Renee stepped from the doorway, then scurried along the path back toward the house.

Lynne led Stanford from the studio, but didn’t lock the door behind them. Hand in hand they walked through the garden, hearing mumbled voices growing louder as they reached the house. Stanford smiled at Laurie as Sam spoke to his wife, then gazed at Lynne. It was then Stanford knew that while Sam had seen those paintings, he was unaware about Eric’s father. But Renee knew, of that Stanford was certain.