Another necessary excerpt

Gratuitous chicken photo as Owl drinks from a tub in the garden while Cami gazes to the left.

This is from Nothing More Complicated: The Hawk Book Four. Stanford Taylor inwardly debates the need for his soul while his longtime housekeeper Agatha Morris proffers the Alka-Seltzer amid 1963's Christmas preparations.....

Enjoy!

 

As families prepared for the holidays, Stanford took stock of his role as an art dealer. He hadn’t blatantly told Eric he would no longer represent him, but Laurie had made Stanford’s feelings clear to both Snyders. Initially Stanford wasn’t sure how he felt about Laurie’s declaration, but it had eased Stanford’s mind, which was still burdened by all Laurie had learned on Thanksgiving. Stanford hadn’t seen Seth since that day, too busy preparing for Eric’s paintings to be shipped to London. The exhibit in New York would close on Sunday, just in time for Christmas. Then the canvases would head for Britain, and after that Stanford wasn’t sure what would happen, though not with Eric’s paintings. Stanford had detailed notes of the museums awaiting those canvases. What bothered Stanford was the return of those artworks. Once they were distributed to new owners or taken back to the Snyders’ compound, what might Stanford’s role in Eric’s life then be?

Only Laurie understood, well, to Stanford’s irritation, Seth did too, but then, what did Seth actually know anymore? And how would Seth adjust once the blue barn was removed from the gallery? That gallery had become Seth’s daily fixture, the barn the center point of his life. But Stanford couldn’t ruminate over that for long, it gave him a headache. Nor did he stop in the library, where those figurines loomed much larger than their size. Stanford wanted to pack them away, but that wouldn’t assuage his mood. Not that Seth would be offended; he didn’t visit Laurie in Manhattan. Seth still resided with his mother in Brooklyn. Laurie’s mother Rose lived practically around the corner from her sister Wilma, the whole clan tightly knitted together within a five-block radius, which included Laurie’s older sisters, Seth’s too. Laurie and Seth had been the only males born into a family of protective, strong-willed females. Stanford was fond of Rose Abrams, but had never felt at home among all those Jewish women.

Laurie’s father Aaron had died of a heart attack months after Stanford had met Laurie, leaving Stanford with little personal recollections of a man who had graced his son with abundant sporting talents, but little in the way of fatherly advice. But Laurie hadn’t needed parental admonishments, or not in the way his sisters had required their mother’s guidance. Laurie had several nieces and nephews, as did Stanford, but neither man was particularly close to those relatives. Well, Laurie was more attached to his, which Stanford attributed to Laurie’s religion, although the Abrams and Gordons weren’t pious Jews. Laurie was the least observant, yet since Thanksgiving, he’d mentioned he was going to send Jane something for Hanukkah. Not eight nights’ worth of gifts, he’d wryly stated, just a small brown bear which had made Agatha smile. Stanford had sighed, for he wished the Snyders would have traveled for the exhibit, yet it was definitely for the best that Eric had not seen his dealer on opening night. Stanford had kept that to himself, but remarked that Jane would indeed enjoy her one Hanukkah present.

Stanford hadn’t felt compelled to choose anything for Jane. Christmas wasn’t more than a day off from work, well, a couple of days’ break. That year it fell on Tuesday, so actually Stanford wouldn’t get to the office until Thursday, allowing Emily Harold time with her family. New Year’s Day would preclude any real business the following week, but now Stanford wasn’t sure what real business meant. His heart hadn’t been in any of it since speaking with that obtuse collector at the opening of Eric’s show.

From the comfort of his home, Stanford could consider that moment as though he now stood outside of it like an observer. The man’s affected mannerisms and boorishness were offensive odors, unduly irritating Stanford. That hadn’t been the first time Stanford had dealt with such peevishness, nor would it be the last, though it might be concerning Eric’s canvases. Stanford didn’t imagine he would start 1963 looking for new employment; his father would send him to a doctor, wondering if Constance’s mental deficiencies were now troubling their son. Most likely Stanford would die as an art dealer, for no other Taylors would follow him. Yet how to proceed without the burning eagerness to scout out new talent, then showcase it appropriately? The love of art no longer drove Stanford, instead replaced by a rote awareness of commitment to his clients. It wasn’t merely Eric over whom Stanford felt this way, a few others having earned a healthy dose of Stanford’s respect. But it was over Eric whom Stanford most ached; he never wanted that man to part with a single painting unless Lynne and Jane were starving.

Yet, unless Eric became a compulsive gambler or fell into another harmful vice, the Snyders would never again be concerned with finances. For that Stanford was grateful, permitting his acumen had set up that family for life. Laurie had tried to ease Stanford’s mind, that if he hadn’t taken on Eric in the first place…. While Stanford’s head knew that was the case, his heart throbbed in a place not previously noted. Sentimentality hadn’t before intruded in Stanford’s life, other than the pain he felt over his mother’s failing health and the sorrow it caused his father. Not even Seth had put such a strain on Stanford’s soul, then Stanford shook his head. His soul, what was that? He grimaced, then smiled. Eric might have an argument waiting if Stanford mentioned such drivel.

Stanford hadn’t revealed any of this to Eric, only Laurie had. But Eric knew and Stanford was sure Lynne did as well, probably the Aherns too. And for as much as Stanford liked Lynne, Sam, even Renee, he only cared what Eric thought. Yet Eric had said nothing, which grated on Stanford, though he knew the reason for Eric’s silence. Eric was waiting for Stanford to bring it up. Only then would Eric make his feelings known.

Damn artists, Stanford rued. Either they were emotionally draining or they subtly wormed their way under Stanford’s skin. He stood abruptly, then left the living room, where a fire had crackled all afternoon. Snow fell outside, but that hadn’t meant much to Stanford. It was the time of year for poor weather, it was Christmastime.

Stanford reached the hallway, gazing to the left, but didn’t wish to even walk past the library. Instead he went right, slipping into the dining room, hearing Agatha’s hum from the kitchen. Laurie was busy with a client and wouldn’t be home for supper. Agatha was making stew, which Stanford loved and could easily reheat for Laurie if perhaps his meeting was cut short. Stanford imagined that wouldn’t be the case; Laurie would be out late, leaving Stanford alone in their usually cozy apartment. But since Thanksgiving, or more precisely opening night of Eric’s exhibit, this house hadn’t felt right to Stanford. He knew why, but simply couldn’t face Seth’s figurines.

Entering the kitchen, Stanford nodded to Agatha, then sat at the table. She didn’t speak, but brought him a cup of coffee. He grasped the mug with both hands, then sipped slowly. The brew was just as tasty as it had been that morning, but it was a fairly fresh pot; she had started it when he returned, just before lunch. What use had it been to sit in his office when nothing felt correct? But coming home hadn’t helped either. Stanford didn’t like the ambiguity which had infiltrated his entire sphere.

If work was difficult, home was a balm. Home was rarely troubling, only when his mother had first fallen ill, or when Seth was…. But Seth would now always be this way, as would Stanford’s mother. Would nothing in Stanford’s life ever be as it was supposed to?

His sigh was long and it made Agatha turn his way. “You all right?” she asked flatly.

“No, I’m not all right.” Then Stanford sighed. “Thanks for the coffee.”

She nodded, humming while stirring the stew. Then she approached him. “You wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head, then felt himself begin to nod as though his heart was betraying every fiber of his being. He couldn’t stop himself, which led Agatha to pull out the chair beside him. She kept her distance, sitting a few feet away, crossing one leg over the other. Stanford now found himself staring into her deep brown eyes, gray hair in tight curls framing her relatively unlined face. Agatha Morris had served Stanford for many years and while he knew her exact age, she appeared a good fifteen years younger. The women in his life couldn’t hide from time, yet this one defied it, and did so beautifully.

She didn’t grasp his hand; she wasn’t his mother, though she knew him better than his mom ever had, fully aware of his weak spots, and his deep love for Laurie. Somehow she even realized his current anxiety, for her kind but reserved eyes permitted him the necessary space. He needed to speak of this breach in his usual armor. Not Agatha nor Eric nor anyone else could draw it from him.

But how to talk about something so, so…. Stanford almost clucked as the word ethereal passed through his mind. Ethereal conjured intangible notions, which at this time of year beckoned to religious customs, Christian and Jewish. Then Stanford chided himself, for what were Santa Claus and dreidels truthfully? Just amusements, nothing more, and certainly not meaningful when it came to….

He glanced at Agatha, who was still facing him. She looked as young as Lynne Snyder, but that was impossible. Stanford blinked, then gazed at the stove, where the flame barely glowed. His stomach growled, which made him flinch. Yet Agatha said nothing, she didn’t move a muscle. She wasn’t going to say it either; Stanford had to make the initial move.

But speech wasn’t necessary as now his belly grumbled loudly. Agatha stood, then returned to where supper waited. She spooned him a generous portion of stew, then brought it to the table, placing the bowl in front of him. She added a plate of crackers and a glass of milk, which made Stanford inwardly sigh. He felt like a five-year-old, but how much of that was his own truculence?

He ate silently, then thanked her for the meal, taking his bowl, plate, and cup to the sink. His coffee mug remained on the table, but he left it, then exited the kitchen. He wandered through the apartment, wishing for Laurie. Then slowly Stanford walked to the library. He didn’t enter that room, but stared at the door, which felt like gazing into Agatha’s eyes. Why was he being so, so, so…. Several adjectives popped into his head; was it stubbornness or sullenness or…. It was fear, he finally admitted, but not aloud. Yet, fear gripped him, although he knew not the cause. However he permitted the sensation. Maybe that was the first step.

But while realized, fear kept him from opening the library door. Instead he turned around, returning to the kitchen, finding his coffee cup where he had left it. Agatha was at the table, eating her supper, and she met his gaze. She wanted him to join her, why she hadn’t taken his cup to the sink. But then he’d left it there; had he been hoping for another chance to spill his guts?

That thought made him twitch, but he sat, then sighed, fiddling with the cup’s handle. Previously he had confided to Agatha about his mother, Seth, and work. But with work, it had never been more than a manner in which to vent about unreasonable clients or overbearing collectors. Often it wasn’t more than gossip, which Stanford wouldn’t have permitted with anyone other than Laurie or his parents. Yet it hadn’t been his parents for years; Agatha was Stanford’s sole female confidant. But did he trust her enough to speak of such an intimate notion?

This seemed as sensitive as if he needed to bare his soul about Laurie. His soul…. Stanford huffed. “When you’re finished in here, feel free to leave early. I’ll put the stew away and….”

To his shock, Agatha gripped his hand. “I’ll leave when I’m good and ready to.”

Their eyes met and Stanford wanted to wrench away from her grasp. But he couldn’t move, could barely breathe. Then Agatha released him and only then did Stanford take a breath. The air was cold going down his windpipe, the rush of it into his lungs making him flinch. He inhaled again, feeling a hint of that forced action, then again, but now it was the simple smoothness of an involuntary organ doing its job. As air flowed in, then out again, peace returned within him. Then he nodded at Agatha. “Do as you like. I’m going to retire early.”

She raised her eyebrows, but didn’t speak, nodding her head. Suddenly all within Stanford was set right, how had it seemed so wrong? Of course Eric would sell more paintings. The prices would continue to skyrocket, which made Stanford’s heart pound. They were only paintings, even if Lynne was the focus, or maybe Jane, or….

A sick dizziness rushed through him, making Stanford grip the sides of the table. He shut his eyes, wishing the world would stop spinning, wishing Agatha would again grasp his hand and that Laurie was clutching the other. But no one came to his aid and the swirling didn’t cease until finally Agatha spoke. “Stanford, do you want to talk about this?”

He shook his head, there was nothing to discuss. But the nausea persisted, as well as the lightheadedness. Stanford couldn’t get the image of Jane and that Polish pastor from his mind, or Lynne on the stool, or any of Eric’s most valuable canvases, the blue barn flashing in Stanford’s head. None of those would ever be sold, they couldn’t be. They were the essence of Eric’s, of his, of that man’s…. Eric’s soul was encased within those layers of paint, carefully placed across canvas, now burning a hole in Stanford’s queasy stomach. Did he have an ulcer, was that from where all of this stemmed?

The next thing Stanford knew was a glass of Alka-Seltzer bubbling near his lips. “Drink this,” Agatha ordered. Stanford took small sips that weren’t as delicious as her coffee, but hopefully this concoction would offer some relief. He drank most of it, then slumped back in his seat, still unwell. Agatha again sat across from him, lines now etched in her forehead, framing her mouth. He ached for her anguish, which was unmistakable. And for the first time, he realized, he had caused her such pain.

She was pained, but not at him. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “I’m not sure what happened just now.”

She clasped his hand in hers, which made him shiver. “I’m sure you do know. But that’s for you to sort.”

He gazed at her quizzically, but again she raised her eyebrows. Then she stood, smoothing wrinkles from her apron. “You know, I am gonna leave early. Laurie’ll be home eventually, he can look after you.” She glanced at the stove, then back to Stanford. “Shall I put the stew away?”

“Yes please,” he stammered.

She nodded, then did so. Stanford watched her the whole time, then ached as she stood beside him, saying goodbye. He wished to escort her to the door, but was too weak to stand. Instead he remained at the kitchen table, hearing her footsteps as she walked through the dining room. Those footsteps grew fainter until Stanford could hear them no more.