Truths of the Heart

by G L Rockey

  T.S. curled up beside her, Rachelle now funked into a deeper gray mood, like a grainy black and white movie projected on a cement block wall which came playing back the bleakest day in her life:

  Just graduated from High School, anticipating going to M.S.U. in the fall, at the family Houghton Lake cottage, she left her mother in the kitchen and went to the dock. She stood on the end and looked out at, riding calmly a hundred yards from shore, Esther II. On warm calm days like the day was, Eric liked to go out, drop anchors, go below, and just dream. Rachelle, an excellent swimmer, decided to surprise him. With strong overhand strokes, she swam to the stern and, hoping to catch her father napping, climbed on board. Looking around, Eric not on board, she became puzzled. He liked to swim. But he wasn't in the water.

  Maybe he had swum to shore. But why, where would he go? Then she noticed a slight drift in the boat. It was not securely anchored. She began pulling up the anchor and froze. Eric floated to the surface, his eyes open, the anchor chair around his neck, she could never forget, on his face, the serene look of peace.

  Tears forming, she wrote in her journal: Ahh, if they only knew—yes, absent-minded, daydreamer, resisting reality, thinking one day I will awaken and it will all have been a dream, all a dream.

  She turned the sitting room light off, went to the bed and crawled in. T.S. at her side, she quickly fell asleep. Dreaming of the M.S.U. campus in the spring, dipping her feet in the Red Cedar's cool water, she awoke to a licking at her toes. She thought at first it was T. S.

  It was Carl.

  “Carl….”

  He pushed T.S. off the bed and began, as he forced her nightshirt upward, licking her legs, gnawing her knees, flicked his tongue, probing her, forcing her, gulping her. He offered himself to her but she declined. Pinning her arms to the bed, he jammed himself hard into her. His aggressiveness overpowering, she responded, screamed, moaned. Carl climaxed in a series of short whimpers then slowly melted into her and slept.

  Rachelle stared at the darkened ceiling.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tuesday and Wednesday passed for Rachelle like mixed up dreams of visiting in-laws. Thursday afternoon, Rachelle checked T.S. Eliot into Betty's Pet Motel. She had reserved the carpeted “penthouse” (on the second floor, it had a view of a ground floor dog kennel), gourmet Fancy Feast breakfast, snack treats, a private litter box, and, one hour a day, he could socialize in the cat common's area. Leaving him in the arms of genteel owner Betty Kemp, Rachelle attempted a goodbye-kiss on T.S.'s nose but he ignored her, turning his head away.

  “Oh, be that way, see you in a few days, and you behave in the common area.”

  T.S. licked Betty's chin.

  ****

  Friday morning, Rachelle ran behind in her toilet, hair, everything. Downstairs at the bar, Carl, decked out in maroon blazer, white mock turtleneck, gray slacks, cordovan loafers, watched ESPN on the TV. He had put his and her luggage in Rachelle's Saab an hour ago. Restless, he called Dent on his cell phone: a reminder to pick up him and Rachelle at the Detroit airport, noon.

  Before he could say goodbye, Dent said, “Just so you know, Penny and I are split up again.”

  “What?”

  “Shit hit the fan Wednesday night.”

  “Jesus Christ, you just got back together a week ago.”

  “She's crazy as hell, I'll tell you about it.”

  Just past 9:30, Rachelle descended the spiral staircase to the first floor. Regal in white half-inch pumps, mango slacks, white silk blouse, she carried a tan jacket over her arm. Her blown-dry hair glistened honey brown around her face. No makeup and radiant, Carl screamed, “Ahhhhhhhyiyi, you gorgeous bitch, I want to eat you right now.” He went to her, gave her a bear hug, and they were off for the drive to Lansing's Capital City Airport.

  Carl driving the Saab, Rachelle said, “Why couldn't we just have driven to Detroit?”

  Carl said, “In this piece of junk, you gotta be kidding, besides we’re getting a free plane ride.”

  She said nothing.

  Carl said, “How much did it cost to keep that cat over the weekend?”

  “Two thousand a night, plus tips.”

  “What?!”

  “Just kidding, fifty a day.”

  “Too much.”

  At the Lansing airport, the pilot of Dent’s private company Challenger jet, Sherry Lucas, awaited the soon-to-be bride and groom. Rachelle wondered if there was a copilot. Sherry smiled like pilots do. “Short flight, no problem.”

  After take off, Carl turned to Rachelle, “You should know, case it comes up, Dent and Penny are separated again.”

  “What!”

  “Dent and Penny….”

  “I heard you. What is Dent boy’s problem?”

  “I don't know, he says it's her.”

  “And I like kidney pie.”

  A half hour later, the Challenger touched down at Detroit's International Airport and pilot Sherry rolled the jet to a private tarmac. Dent greeted deplaning Rachelle and Carl. With him was a lady—big blond hair, cherry lips, skimpy white blouse accenting (bazookas, Rachelle thought) breasts, tight fitting red hip-huggers revealed a large sensuous navel. Red spike heels put her even eyes with Dent and Carl. She smiled sweetly. Dent introduced her as Candy. She giggled, shook hands with Rachelle, then kissed Carl on the cheek.

  Rachelle to herself: Dent, you are a bigger ass than I imagined. Kim, someone is watching over you.

  Dent—gold sports jacket, white turtleneck, white slacks—held an arm out to a uniformed driver who stood by the open rear door of a long and white limo. Bold lettering on the side in silver and black advertised: Tommi Gilmour's High Five.

  Dent said, “This is Gus, our driver. Limo courtesy of guess who? Shall we?”

  In the limo's plush white cocoon, behind smoked safety glass, speeding to Detroit's downtown Ambassador Hotel, Dent reminded Carl that the limo would pick him and Rachelle up at 4:00 for the wedding rehearsal at Ford Field. He had confirmed everything with Father Alfonso Lauro (no Mass, Father would perform a civil ceremony).

  Dent, with a squeeze of Candy's knees, said, “Candy's coming along to practice up, we're hooking up in the spring.”

  You amazing jackass jerk, thought Rachelle. She said, “How wonderful.”

  “Hey, congratulations,” said Carl.

  “I want you to be my best man,” said Dent to Carl.

  “You got it, coach.”

  Rachelle and Candy exchanged grass-snake smiles.

  The afternoon rehearsal at Ford Field went without a hitch and, after a quick fresh-up, they all headed to the High Five for a Tommi Gilmour hosted party. Attending would be the Lions’ football squad, coaching staff, the ESPN TV crew, Father Alfonso, Corky, and much of the WJJ radio staff.

  Approaching the High Five, Rachelle recalled the Dent-sponsored football weekend when she met both Dent and Carl. It was nearly a year ago, but the outside appearance of the two story brick building hadn't changed much. It looked like a dump then, still did, hadn't changed a dime.

  Entering the sports emporium, the sound of TV announcers mixed with the grinding roar of yak, blab, belly laughs, thick coughs, and smoke.

  Out of the fog, in a husky voice, the bridal party was greeted by Ms. Tommi Gilmour. Her hair tonight light-blue streaked with silver, her blue eyes were encased in inch-long black eyelashes. Blue eye shadow sprinkled with sparklies accented her baby-blues. Blood red lipstick lapped over the edge of her lips.

  Rachelle remembered her first “strange bird” assessment of Tommi as she noted Tommi's long nose, hard jaw, and pasty whiteness of her neck. Tonight Tommi's breasts were squeezed into a deeply cut sparkling silver gown. Like bread dough hanging over the sides of a pan, thought Rachelle.

  Tommi's gown, slits on both sides, fit snugly over her slim hips and flowed down to the tips of her blue spike heels.

  Escorted to a booth, Tommi said, “Let the gala begin,” and ordered a round of drinks for the group.

  Seated w
ith the wedding party, Tommi's drink, served in a brandy snifter, was what she called, “Polish moonshine.” She smiled, “Actually, it’s slivovitz, 70% alcohol.” She poured a tiny amount in an ashtray, ignited her platinum lighter, held it to the liquid, and POOF, a blue flame flashed.

  “Forbidden fruit,” said Tommi and with raised eyebrows, smiling at Carl, she licked the tip of a blue Virginia Slim, inserted it into a six-inch silver cigarette holder, and lit up.

  In the wee hours of Saturday morning, back at their Ambassador Hotel room, Carl passed out on the bed, Rachelle, slightly tipsy herself, noted the date and caught herself thinking, not of the morrow, nor the long plane ride to Phoenix, but of Com. 501.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Saturday morning arrived with thunderstorms in the forecast. For Rachelle, the day moved along like the famed bat out of hell, 9:02 P.M. finally arrived. Raining outside, the temperature in enclosed Ford Field was a pleasant and dry 70 degrees. A sell-out crowd, half-time ended with the score, Detroit 13, Chicago 10.

  ESPN announcer Tucker Stone bubbled into the TV camera: “Well sports fans, that's the end of the first half. Looks like a different Lions team than last week. Wooo-ee. Annnd, don't go way, coming up right after the commercial break, it's a big night for former Lions star quarterback, Heisman Trophy winner, Carl Bostich. The big man is hitching the knot right here, live, on the fifty-yard line! Believe it.”

  Tucker turned to his side kick, Fred Tekcit, “Fred my man, what a night.”

  Fred said, “Blockbuster, Tuck, Lions winning, Carl Bostich getting hooked, and wait till you get a load of the dish he's hookin up with, oo la la, centerfold stuff.”

  Tucker smiled into the camera, “That's right folks, Bostich is hooking up with Michigan State University's own Dr. Rachelle Zannes.”

  Fred said reverently: “She's a college professor.”

  Tucker: “Doesn't get any better than this, folks. Be right back after a quick break, don't dare go way.”

  In the back seat of the High Five limo, thirteen long stem yellow roses (courtesy of Tommi Gilmour) in her arms, Rachelle sat like a porcelain doll. Dressed in a white suite (she refused wedding gown regalia) white half-heel shoes, her glistening honey brown hair flowed to her shoulders. She hated it. She rolled her eyes. What am I doing here, reverberating around in her mind, she looked out the Limo windows to the hungry crowd.

  Wonder if Jerry Springer might soon appear with a nude pig. This is insane: I'm not a twenty year old cheerleader. Stop that Z, it's your wedding day. Stop it this minute!

  Waiting for a signal to drive onto the playing field, High Five limo driver Gus—black suit, tie—studying Rachelle in the rear view mirror, smiled like he had heard her thoughts.

  She said, “Gus, why don't you gun this thing out of here, take me someplace, rip this dress off, and rape me.”

  He turned quickly and looked at her through the open partition.

  “Just kidding.” She looked through the side window. The Ford Field audience looked like a rock concert—bare chests, painted faces, signs: FOREVER LOVEBIRDS, PLAYING FOR KEEPS. A fat lady bared her basketball size breasts to reveal a blue and silver Lions logo.

  The silence inside the limo stark, Rachelle, this is insane playing in her mind like a stuck recording, felt the limo began to move. She looked forward through the windshield and saw, dressed in a maroon tux, standing tall on the fifty-yard line, Carl. He smiled like the cat that had eaten the bird, the cage, and the owner in one gulp.

  Grimacing like he would rather be someplace else, Father Alfonso stood beside Carl.

  Rachelle, like she was on a platform moving for a close-up in some surreal movie, observed Carl seeming to get larger and larger.

  She noticed Gus talking into his cell phone as he began a maneuver that brought the limo to straddle the forty yard line and stop. Out of nowhere, Dent, dressed in a maroon tux identical to Carl’s, opened the back door, greeted Rachelle, took her hand, and she stepped onto the green turf. Sixty-seven-thousand-plus fans exploded in cheering. A thousand camera flashes. A marching band played Rachelle's favorite, “Memory”.

  ESPN announcer Tucker over the public address system: “And here she is folks, the future Mrs. Carl Bostich.”

  Mania, more camera flashes.

  Dent raised his right elbow, Rachelle placed her left hand on his forearm, and they walked to Carl and Father Alfonso.

  Carl took Rachelle's hands and kissed her fingers. Wild screaming, more camera flashes. A fan, chased by security guards, ran across the field.

  Father Alfonso raised his hands, the crowd quieted and Father's baritone voice boomed into the night air: “Dearly beloved, we are here gathered on this evening to join together Rachelle Zannes and Carl Bostich....” Thunderous ovation, still more camera flashes. Alfonso raised his hand again. The crowd hushed. He looked at Carl. “Do you Carl….”

  To Rachelle the short ceremony proceeded like science fiction outtakes, the only thing she heard, like a cannon shot, was “until death do you part”, and ESPN's Tucker over the public address, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr. and Mrs. Carl Bostich.”

  Ford Field erupted in cheers, and Carl snatched Rachelle in his arms and carried her to the limo. Dent opened the back door. Rachelle and Carl entered. Candy—white skimpy leather dress, a green scarf around her neck—sat on the seat facing the back. She crossed her legs and giggled, “It's so exciting.”

  Imagine that, Rachelle thought.

  Dent got in, slammed the door, sat beside Candy, popped a bottle of Champagne, poured flutes full and, as the limo began to slowly move, he and Candy saluted to love, life, and the forever after.

  Gus inched his bridal cargo across the field to the stadium tunnel. He drove in and stopped next to a private elevator that expressed the wedding party to the Lions owner's Ford Field suite.

  Catered by Tommi Gilmour, a small group awaited and the reception began. Nearing a break in the third quarter, ESPN female commentator Misty Short, waited to interview the newlyweds.

  Eight inch Punch cigar in one hand, rum and Coke in the other, Carl ogled petite smiling Misty like she might be a snack.

  Misty said, “Stand by,” smiled, then at a cue: “So, here we are with the newly married couple.”

  The TV video zoomed out to show Carl and Rachelle, Misty said, “So Mrs. Bostich, where's the honeymoon?”

  Carl: “Where else, land of the sun, Phoenix, Arizona.”

  Misty: “Cool. Any thoughts, Mrs. Bostich?”

  Carl: “Lions have a game there next week, kill two birds with one stone. Hah hah hah.”

  Misty, with a roll of her eyes, said to the ESPN announcers, “Back to you guys.”

  Corky Dixon, drink in left hand, maneuvered in front of Rachelle and Carl. “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Bostich, we were saving this as a wedding present.” He extended his right hand to Carl. “Playing for keeps big man, the WJJ show is a go.”

  Carl threw his head back, screamed, “Yessss,” then grabbed Corky's right hand, hugged him, kissed his cheek, said, “You beautiful son of a bitch you.”

  Rachelle said, “Did I miss something?”

  Carl hugged her, “We're in like Flynn, babe.” He turned to Corky, “When do I start?”

  “Get the honeymoon over, when you get back, we'll talk. Looking at September 16, need some lead time for promotion, you know.”

  ****

  Football game over, Lions 21, Chicago 13, reception over, goodbyes, kisses, the newlyweds being limoed by Gus through heavy rain to the Detroit airport, Rachelle said, “Tell me more about this show with WJJ.”

  “They want me to do a weekly sports talk show?”

  “They do?”

  “Yep, live call-in, weekdays, 3-6 P.M., calling it Playing for Keeps.”

  “Isn't that wonderful.”

  He squeezed her inner thigh, “We're on our way babe, can't keep Bostich down.”

  “When did all this happen?”

  “Cork just confirmed it, you heard him.
”

  With luggage on board Dent’s Martin Lang & Ruffin company jet, the door closed, pilot Sherry smiled at Rachelle and pointed to her copilot. “We got one for this trip.”

  Rachelle nodded out a window to the stormy weather, “Thanks.”

  Carl had Rachelle sit in the front lounge seat, spoke to Sherry, then closed the cockpit door.

  As the plane taxied, rain streaking the cabin windows, Carl popped a bottle of Champagne, poured two flutes, sat next to Rachelle, and toasted. “To us, babe, playing for keeps.”

  Racing down the runway, taking off into a black filled bumpy night, they began a climb to 40,000 feet and the trip to Phoenix.

  Through a few minutes of extreme turbulence, the ride smoother but choppy, Carl slipped a hand under Rachelle's dress. “We get back, we'll have to put the house up for sale, babe, start looking for a place in Detroit.”

  Rachelle reached for a courtesy bag.

  PART II

  CHAPTER ONE

  Monday, August 26, Two Weeks Later

  First day of fall classes, Michigan State's campus emerged from early morning mist awash in a sunny afternoon. Students toted a jacket over a shoulder, swung a sweater over an arm, clutched books in hand. Some talked on cell phones, others studied the screens of their hand-held readers.

  Seth Trudow wore his black flight boots, denim chino pants, and a navy- blue sweatshirt. The sweatshirt hung loose over his beltless waist. Printed on the back of his shirt, in white letters, the place he worked part time: daVinci's Art & Frame Shop. This semester, with a full class load, Seth's da Vinci schedule was Tuesday and Thursday, 3-7:00 P.M.

  Fifteen minutes early for COM 501's 2:00 P.M. start, Seth sat on the grass outside Olds Hall. One of the original Michigan State college buildings, Olds was built of red brick, ivy covered, and surrounded by leafy oak and maple trees.

  Seth put his 9x12 artist's sketch pad in front of him. The sketch pad served two purposes: taking class notes and making sketches for future paintings. He stretched his legs out and, savoring the outdoors, scanned the landscape—brilliant sunlight set against dark shadows in a million shades of green. People dressed in wisps of reds, MSU green and white, placed in delicate poses. As he absorbed the three-dimensional representation of reality, a thought intrigued him, is truth like that?