by G L Rockey
She closed the book and stroked T.S. Is that what father had been thinking?
Her eyes drifted to, turning slowly, the blades of the Casablanca fan.
CHAPTER FOUR
The final gun sounded the game over, Carl Bostich crushed out his Kool and Corky wrapped it up for the radio audience: “There you have it folks, final score, San Francisco 42, Lions 10. Well Carl, with the regular season start next Saturday, the big bad Chicago Bears in town, looks like our Lions pigskin boys have some work to do.”
“I'll say.”
“But the really big event is at half time, huh babe, tying the knot.”
“Yep, tying the knot.”
“Whooo-eee, all you Lions fans back home in Michigan, if you just landed on the planet, this here ole-pal-o-mine, next week, is tying the knot right on the fifty-yard line of Ford Field. I think there are a few seats left. If you're listening, Rachelle, there's still time to run for cover.”
“Playing for keeps, Cork.”
Corky threw it to a commercial break, turned to his sidekick, stretched, and said, “Well Carl, time for a dry martinoo, some sushi, and a long stemmed bimbo … not necessarily in that order.”
Carl put his hand over his microphone, “Hey, are these mikes off?”
The producer said over the headsets: “Everything cool, man.”
Cork: “Relax big guy.”
“Hell of a note if that bimbo remark had ended up in Rachelle's ear.”
Corky slapped Carl's shoulder. “My treat stud, tonight's gonna be your bachelor party, you have a reputation to maintain.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Rachelle opened her eyes to the ringing of the bedside phone. She looked at caller ID: Carl.
RING.
She looked at the clock radio time. 12:55 A.M.!
RING.
“Rats.” She had fallen asleep, missed the game. She had also forgotten to turn on the answering machine.
RING.
“Rats.”
She nudged T.S. “Why did you let me fall asleep, you?”
He opened his eyes and yawned.
She picked up the phone and answered lovingly, “Hello Carl.”
“Forgot to turn the answering machine on.”
“I'm sorry, it was T.S.'s fault.”
“Funny.”
T.S. gave Rachelle the evil eye, jumped to the floor and went into the hallway.
Carl: “How many times do I have to remind you, sweets, leave that answering machine on.”
“I forgot, I….”
“How'd you like the game?”
“I … Carl … I fell asleep.”
Silence then, “Are you shittin me!”
“I….”
“My premiere and she falls asleep, Jesus Christ.”
“Carl, I….”
“Dearest, I told you I want you to listen, I need your input, babe. I'll be auditioning every time I do a game.”
“I'm sorry….”
“Sorry is for losers.”
CLICK.
She started counting, “One, two, three, four…” the phone began ringing again. ID, Carl. She pushed the on button. “Hi.”
“Don't forget to pick me up at the airport tomorrow, 5:30.”
“I won't forget.”
“Promises promises.”
“Carl….”
“Cork and I are going to grab something to eat.”
“Watch those carbs.”
“What you eat?”
“Just a salad.”
“Where?”
“Yellow brick road.”
“Where?”
“I told you, Wendy's.”
“That's all you had?”
“Yes.”
“I hate them Wendy's.”
“We know.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“See you then.”
“You forgot something.”
“I did?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
She hung up, leaned back against the pillow, now wide awake, and T.S. returned to his previous spot by her side.
“You're bad.” She said.
He yawned and settled in.
She looked at the time: 1:05. Reality too much with her, going back to sleep not an option, she took up her writing journal and began writing:
Monday, A.M. - Feeling as if I'm in a time warp, excited (words not adequate) about upcoming class. Hoping the students are too … so much to explore … looking forward … so excited I would, if necessary, watch TV for a week to teach it. It is going to be exhilarating. I can't wait to see the faces, meet the students, read some writing from (hopefully) a new voice. It's like opening a new novel, beginning to read; anticipating the suspense, wishing it would never end….
I wonder if the other thing is the right thing to do … a little late … shouldn't even be thinking these thoughts, but … I wonder about Carl. I know he is selfish, possessive, but underneath I think he loves me, cares for me, wants to protect me … I don't need protection, thank you. I don't need caring for either. I do need that other thing, maybe more than I should. What the hell, I like sex and I like men. Is that bad? Look at Elisabeth, I think she smolders hot because she didn't get a winkie when they passed them out … ENOUGH of that! It will be nice to go to faculty parties or holiday affairs not having to worry about a date, blind or otherwise, awkward looks from people. I feel they wonder how can someone that attractive (can't help it, I am, good genes, both parents were striking) not have a man hanging on each arm. Alas, society. But why Carl? Aside from animal sex, he pursued me, I like to be pursued. Most males are afraid of me, intimidated, I think, by my mind and my body. Don't want to make another mistake in affairs-of-the-heart. Picking men (past tense please) was a total disaster. Simply put, you have never met anyone that satisfied you mentally, emotionally, and physically: the famous shining triple-threat knight. My ultimate fantasy has always been to be stimulated mentally, emotionally, and physically in one long night of ecstasy. But alas, methinks this knight does not exist. To wit: sophomore in high school, I allowed myself to be maneuvered by freshman Tom Nesbit into secluded woods. Pinned against an oak tree, I helped him with his first kiss, a condom in my purse; I led him right up to a premature ejaculation that scarred him forever. Then there was Ed. Had a Plymouth convertible, turned out he was an alcoholic at eighteen. Then came Anthony. Immature, angry at the world, he was like a Friday night ride on a carnival Ferris wheel. In love with himself, his idea of the ultimate was to look at me in the nude while he ministered to himself. Then he whined because I wasn't satisfied. After Anthony, came graduate student, architect major, Allen Deebs. Spent emotional time together—holding hands, looking at the stars, brooding, languishing, sighing. But alas, he came far short in the physical area (is that Freudian or what). Whatever, he simply had little use for sex of any kind. Then there is Carl, aside from animal lust, his interests lie in football, football, and football. Emotions run to an occasional game of golf and, once in a while, fishing. Prefers power boats to sailing. Reading consists of Playboy and Sports Illustrated. He lacks the first two rungs but he makes up for the other two in the rack. Ouch! There's a dark side to you, Z. There's a dark side to everybody. I wonder if maybe my knight is a she … but no that can't be. Experimented in high school years, remember Donna? Left me blank. No, been there, done that, if such a triple threat knight exists, the creature has to be male.
It will be all right, I love Carl, his overprotectiveness is his way of showing his love. Socially, a necessity, good thing to do, fills that physical need and besides, always did like a strong wind at my back. I wonder about Dad. I wonder why he took his life. What was he thinking? Looking for meaning in life. Finding that there was none. I think it was more … God knows. Onward, one day at a time, actually one hour at a time. I wonder how people who have a terrible disease go on, hope? What if this is it? I miss my father.
She took, kept between the last page and back cover
, a yellowed and faded obituary clipping from the Lansing State Journal and read:
Eric Paul Zannes, 1026 Tulip Drive, Grand Ledge, MI, died last Sunday while boating at Houghton Lake. Mr. Zannes, an artist, was 45. Cause of death was accidental drowning.
She stopped reading, Accidental drowning, my foot … how does a forty-five year old man, skilled boater, tie a fifty-pound anchor around his neck and fall into twenty feet of water, accidentally?
She recalled her mother's version given to a Lansing State Journal obit writer: “Eric slipped while anchoring and glided gently into the deep cool waters he so loved.” Dear mother believed that until the day she died, but I know better...
She closed that thought like the casket lid the funeral director had dropped over her father's cold dead face, and continued reading the newspaper obit:
Mr. Zannes was the husband of long time Lansing librarian Esther Zannes. Eric, a native of Grand Ledge, attended Central Michigan University where he earned a BA in Fine Arts. Graduated, he moved to Grand Ledge, and began his art career. He was affectionately known as EZ, a nickname given by his college classmates because of his reputation for being a soft touch. He most enjoyed going to the family cottage on Lake Houghton, where he sailed, weather permitting, his sloop affectionately named Esther II. Eric was the perennial winner of the Grand Ledge Art's Festival and was the person neighbors turned to for advice on decorating their homes. There will be no formal funeral services but friends may gather for the cortege to the New Hope Cemetery, Wednesday at one P.M. He is survived by wife Esther and daughter Rachelle
.
Rachelle closed her journal, “Forty-five years in the 'hammer' and you get a couple inches on page 20 of the local newspaper.”
She recalled Dylan Thomas's famous lines of poetry, “Do not go gentle into that good night, rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
She whispered, “Did you go gently, father, or did you rage … father … why?”
She opened again her journal and read the translation of Ithaka her father had attached to the inside front cover of her first journal he had given her on her sixteenth birthday. Over the years, when she started a new volume, she had moved the poem to the new. She read:
As you set out in search of Ithaka
Pray that your journey be long,
full of adventures, full of awakenings,
Do not fear the monsters of old…
You will not meet them in your travels
if your thoughts are exalted and remain high,
if authentic passions stir your mind, body and spirit.
You will not encounter the fearful monsters
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up in front of you.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you are destined for.
But don't hurry the journey.
Better it lasts for years,
So you are old by the time you reach the island, wealthy
with all you've gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to
make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience, you
will understand what these Ithakas have meant.
—Greek poet C. P. Cavafy
Love, Dad
“Yes, and so there.” She stoked T.S. “I have no idea the where, why and what this journey is all about, do you?”
He yawned.
“I see.”
Drowsiness coming on, she put pen and journal on her night stand, checked the time, 2:00 A.M., nudged T.S. over, and snapped the light off. The sound of the ceiling fan blades swishing the darkness, her eyes open, thoughts went to Com. 501: Thirteen students signed up, what do they expect, what will they be like....
Her thoughts drifted to the weave of a Persian Rug … then next Saturday's monster at Ford Field half time.
CHAPTER SIX
The Forty-Niner—Lions' post game show wrapped up, Carl and Corky, on their way to Chinatown and dinner, sat in the back seat of a Checker Cab. The night lights of San Francisco's skyline like a slow moving virtual reality video, Corky said, “Great job tonight Carl, really singular.”
“You think?” Carl dragged on a Kool King.
“Yep.”
“Thanks.”
“This might be a little premature but you know, we've been kicking an idea around at WJJ, the brass, me, we're thinking about making a regular slot for you.”
“What a ya mean?”
“A regular slot, year round, on WJJ, sports talk radio show, thinking of calling it 'Playing for Keeps'.”
“You're honking me.”
“Not at all. It'll be a call-in show, 3-6 P.M., Monday through Friday, be a killer.”
“You really are honking me, aren't you?”
“Nope.”
“What about the Lions front office, what do they say?”
“Already talked to them, no problem there, a natural.” Corky paused then said, “What about Rachelle?”
“What about her?”
“Her Michigan State University job, East Lansing … you’ll probably need to move to Detroit … long commute otherwise.”
“This a firm offer?”
“Yep, we have to get THAX corporate approval, but that's not a problem.”
“Hot damn, this is great.”
“Rachelle would buy into it?”
“Hell yes, when do we start?”
“Get this wedding under your belt, honeymoon, then we'll go from there, we're thinking mid September premiere, get some promotion going.”
“Hell's fire, yes, playing for keeps, big man.” Carl offered a high five.
“You sure it wouldn't be a problem for Rachelle?”
“Opportunity like that, hell no, ready to go, how much?”
“Sales Manager figures you'd be a natural at selling, give you a list, beat the bushes, sell your show, commissions, bonuses, we'll do a package.”
“Hell's fire, yes!” He high fived Corky again.
****
Carl and Corky entered Chinatown's Three Dragons' restaurant and, with a flurry of activity reserved for celebrity, were escorted to a corner booth where, tucked snugly in, were San Francisco Forty-Niner cheerleaders Debbie and Dawn. Smiling sweetly, blonde Debbie wore a red mini skirt and Brunette Dawn wore a similar white dress.
After Corky introduced Carl, the party of four was visited by owner Dong Lo. He greeted them, chatted, bought them a first round of drinks, recommended the sea bass baked in banana leaves with a coconut shrimp and crab meat stuffing. It was so ordered.
****
After dinner, two bottles of Dom Perignon, a little past midnight, Corky invited the ladies to join him and Carl for overtime treats. Arrived at Corky's opulent Union Square hotel suite, the wine flowed, the music played, clothes were shed, and the Jacuzzi tub bubbled.
Soon bored with foreplay, Debbie stepped her six-foot dripping body out of the bubbling water and, with the long fingernail of her right index finger, beckoned Carl. Corky sang the Notre Dame fight song. Dawn giggled. Debbie took Carl by the hand, led him to the bedroom and, as she closed the door, Carl tackled her to the floor. She whimpered. He ravished her toes crudely then rolled her over, pulled her into a doggie position, and rammed her. She screamed. He smacked her rump, said “giddy up,” laughed. She pulled away and turned. He smacked her face. She whimpered as he picked her up, threw her on the bed, and presented his largess to her trembling lips.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rachelle dreamed: Esther II sailed over some frothy wave tossing never-ending sea. Her father at the helm, he wore a gray sweat shirt with, in red letters, ytircoidem brazened across the front. He fought with the craft’s wheel. Water and wind washed over the deck. Then some sagely voice, out of the wind, droned Maugham's Of Human Bondage words: “In other things, if y
ou're a doctor or you're in business, it doesn't matter so much if you're mediocre. You make a living and you get along. But what is the good of turning out second-rate pictures?”
A ship’s bell clanged.
She opened her eyes. The phone ringing, she looked at the digital clock display. 4:30 A.M. She had an inkling who the ring originator was. She snapped on the bed side lamp and checked caller ID. Yep.
Nuzzled up by her head, T.S. opened his eyes then closed them. She picked up the phone and said sleepily, “Hi.”
Carl's voice slurred: “Is this Mrs. Carl Bostich?”
“Carl, it's 4:30 in the morning.”
“Only 1:30 here.”
T.S. bolted to the floor and scampered downstairs.
Carl: “Night`s young, my lady fair.”
“Carl, have you been drinking?”
“Never.”
“Carl, go to sleep.”
“Ya forgot again.”
“What?”
“To turn the answering machine on.”
Yawning, “Oh rats, darn.”