Truths of the Heart

by G L Rockey

  That thought bouncing around, he recalled what had brought him to Olds Hall this fine day: besides needing the eight credits, his interest in the creative processes—a white canvas, a blank page—there was the more personal reason: Natalie. She had wanted to become an author. He still wondered, with her passion for truth, what wondrous things she would have written, discovered, offered the long and ragged line of human history.

  That thought paused as he scanned an interesting scene: five students, in and out of bright sunlight, lounging under a tree. He opened his sketch pad and began a pencil drawing. Seth did many drawings, some discarded, some transformed into paintings. He worked mostly in oils, wet in wet, pushing raw colors around in heavy impasto stokes, some squeezed directly from the tube onto the canvas. It wasn't so much he wanted to paint, he had to, no choice, addicted. He had sold some of his work at art shows. One, a landscape, brought three hundred dollars. Another earned $250. And although the money was nice, he would pay whomever to allow him to paint.

  The group he sketched disbursed, his sketch roughed in, might be a keeper. Seth checked his Seiko wristwatch. Two minutes to start of class, he stood, entered Olds Hall, and like going into a sacred temple, he sensed some third presence.

  He arrived at the assigned first floor classroom at exactly 2:00 P.M. and entered.

  The room empty, he thought, everybody is late, must be a graduate thing.

  He observed the rectangular room: three rows of wooden desk-chairs, five to a row, like miniature Easter Island statues. The desks faced a wooden table and chair. On the wall behind the table, a green chalkboard looked as if it were hung as an afterthought. To the right were three narrow windows that overlooked a leafy section of the campus. The floor was wood and the bare walls were painted beige. The high ceiling white, the lighting consisted of three strips of fluorescent lights.

  Seth took a seat in the back row on the end, next to a window. The room stuffy, no air-conditioning, he opened his sketch pad and wrote: Com. 501, then leaned back in the creaking wooden chair and observed other students filtering into the room. He watched quietly, catching bits of laughter, conversation, chuckles. The room quickly filled. Four males, nine females, seeming like they all knew each other. They snatched glances at him, some smiling, some feigning disinterest. The females ranged, it seemed to Seth, from a pseudo grandmother who wore wire granny glasses, had her gray hair in a bun, to one who looked like she could be a high school cheerleader. Another had a long skinny nose and wore a white T-shirt that exaggerated her ice-cream cone breasts. Still another with orange hair smiled at Seth like he was raw meat and she ate such six times a day. It seemed to Seth that the four males were like canines in a family of cats. One—crew-cut, gold earrings—wore tattered jeans and a gray sweat shirt. To Seth he looked like he might be very much full of himself.

  Observing the group, he wondered where they came from, what their backgrounds were. He imagined how any one of them might assess him, a stranger, sitting in the back, dressed in flight boots, a da Vinci's sweat shirt, denim chino pants: how’d this clown get in here?

  He heard laughter at the front of room and noted that the full-of-himself male had said something apparently funny. Seth looked at his watch. 2:10. The professor has not yet arrived, he thought, then remembered the many times he had tried to contact Zannes. Figures.

  In the midst of his thoughts, he heard a movement toward silence and, like a cool wind through tall pine trees, a person entered the classroom.

  Seth, sitting up, thought, the professor has arrived. But this doesn't look like any professor I've ever seen before. Damn! This is Hollywood stuff, Rodeo Drive, London Palladium. Unbelievable.

  He detected a new and intoxicating fragrance in the room–fresh cut citrus, some cinnamon in there, roses in light spring rain.

  He frowned, is this some bogus chess game a bored Zeus is playing with reality? Has to be, because this being who is now at the front of this classroom is more at a spirit force than human.

  His eyes were glued to her. But no, this diva is flesh and blood and I'm feeling some primordial urge, mating, lusting, the first nuclei separated Something stirs in me, a seed in soil drawn to life by the sun. There is no other one on earth, a one and only one … damn!

  He studied her honey brown hair that fell to her shoulders, eyes perfectly placed in the oval face; sparkling topaz irises like jewels set against titanium white, the nose, a little fleshy but very nice, elegant jaw line, upper lip a distant winged-bird in flight, lower lip a little puffy but marvelous, rounded chin, no discernible makeup.

  Damn!

  He observed her clothes—light tan sweater draped over elegant shoulders, the loose sweater arms tied loosely and falling over the front of a white long sleeve satin blouse; blouse collar turned up, cuffs rolled back once, gray slacks, loose fitting, flowed over what appeared to be slender legs, black low heel pumps. He imagined what other wondrous things were covered by her finery.

  Damn!

  A soft burgundy attaché in hand, she smiled at the class, put the attaché on the table, hung her sweater on the chair, and said, “Hi.” Hellos and His rang out from the class.

  She removed syllabuses and a class roster from her attaché. The roster on top, she scanned it, then looked up to the class and said, “I recognize most of you, but there are a few new faces.”

  She looked at the familiar faces, “How was summer vacation?”

  Amid the giddy chit chat, Seth turned to a fresh page in his sketch pad and began to draw Rachelle. As he worked, he observed her more closely: neck skin tight and smooth, perfect ears, small lobes, complexion peachy, Venus de Milo breasts, delicate arms, sensuous hands, slim waist, modest loins, lean delicate torso, molded pelvis, no flab....

  Damn!

  As she moved behind the table at the front of the room, he felt a chilling weakness. Then he caught a glimpse into her eyes. Beyond the smiling beauty, a longing for something beyond the grasp!

  Damn, Setho, that's Robert Browning and what is heaven for!

  She said, “Most of you know me but for those new....” She turned to the chalkboard, found a piece of white chalk, and wrote with a gentle flourish:

  Dr. Rachelle Zannes (Bostich)

  Com. 501

  201 Bessey Hall

  She put the chalk in the tray, turned back to the class, pointed to her writing on the chalk board, “In case you didn't already know.”

  A student out of the blue: “Dr. Rachelle Zannes Bostich, married on national TV to the famous Carl Bostich, everybody knows you.”

  Laughter.

  She said, “Hardly.”

  Student: “Why Bostich in parenthesis?”

  “Budget. The university didn't want to have to print new catalogues, change name plates.” She tilted her head. “You know?”

  Laughter.

  She said, “Warm in here, isn't it?”

  Several: “Yes.”

  Blah blah blah, Seth thought, It's hot in here all right, but it's not from the atmosphere.

  Rachelle said, “This is Com. 501, a seminar in creative interpretation

  through the...” she picked up the chalk again and scrawled “written word” on the blackboard and, as she underlined it, said, “Written word.”

  She turned and locked eyes with Seth.

  He thought he saw a glint of distant light, as in a tunnel, a train's engine barreling toward him.

  Eyes talking, she said to Seth, “Would you mind opening that window next to you?”

  He dropped his sketch pad to the floor. Looked at her, unable to look away.

  She tilted her head, smiled, and mouthed, Please.

  Damn!

  Quickened, he stumbled to the window and pushed it open.

  Rachelle: “Thank you,” and she addressed the group: “If you are not a grad student you should not be in this class, except the one senior with special permission who is with us.” She looked over the students, “Is he here?”

  Seth raised his hand.<
br />
  “Ah, the window opener.”

  The class turned to look at blushing Seth.

  Rachelle paused, smiled at him, then continued in what, to him, was an unbridled toying with his emotions: lilting voice, playful smile, and those eyes... she's killing me on purpose.

  Sitting at the table, she said, “Presumably we know the basics of writing. If you don't, good luck. Now,” smiling she spoke to a male student in the front row, “Mark, would you pass out the syllabus. Thank you.”

  Seth thought, she knows the klutz. Hope he falls on his face. No you don't. Get hold of yourself.

  As the course outline was being distributed, Zannes said, “Please note that this eight-credit course is offered in two consecutive semesters. You, actually we, you and I, in a sense, are litmus paper. If all goes well, others may follow. In any case, as you know there are three options open to grad students for meeting the master degree requirements—a comprehensive exam, a thesis, or a project. This course will focus on the latter, a project that will fulfill the requirement.”

  She looked at Seth, “For our non-graduate student, I would think, in addition to the eight credits, you would be able, if you decided, to apply the project, satisfactorily completed of course, toward a master's degree. I'm not sure, we'll have to check with the powers that be, that is if you intend to go on. See me and we'll discuss it.”

  See me! See me! Do you know what you're doing to me? Seth watched as

  she stood, walked to the window next to him, and leaned against the sill.

  She spoke to the class, “As you can see in the syllabus, the project may be any number of things: collection of short stories, a novella, play, collection of poems. Emphasis here is on fiction, creating situations, people, worlds using words. Three fourth of your grade will be based on the project. This semester will be devoted mainly to discussions, writing assignments, you'll read them in class, and works from the reading list. We will arrange individual meetings to hone your ideas, select a project. Next semester there will be no formal class meetings, instead, individual meetings to discuss your progress on your projects.

  “Now, let’s go around, please introduce yourself.” She pointed to a female in the first row, “Carol, you go first.”

  “My name is Carol Austin, I'm from Coldwater, Michigan and after I earn my Master's degree, I plan to earn my PhD. I work, since my finances are low, part time at Sears.”

  Seth watched Rachelle—lively eye movement, lips pressed together, then slightly open, moist, a smile; touching an ear, her chin–listening to each student as if the student speaking was the only person in the world. And yes, she glanced at him more than once.

  The students continued: “I'm Audrey Barton ... I'm Doris Brady ... My name is Joan Buterbaugh ... Dwight Adams, here ... Hi, my name is Donald Bower....”

  Mark, the klutz who handed out the syllabus, was going to write the great American novel, be another John Grisham, go to Hollywood.

  Klutz.

  The last student was the one he imagined the “meat eater,” Mary Dilts. She sat next to Seth, smelling like medicated hospital soap, had a few zits, was heartily built. She wasn't sure what she was going to do except she loved to travel, especially Mexico and the Islands.

  Mary finished, all eyes went to Seth.

  He said “I'm Seth Trudow, art major, the senior among you.”

  Rachelle, something tugging that shouldn't be tugging, smiled, “And what brings you to this class, Mr. Trudow.”

  He wanted to say, “you”, but how could he have known? He sat erect, “'To sing to lords and ladies of Byzantium of what is past, or passing, or to come,' Yeats.”

  General laughter from students.

  Rachelle knew the poem, “'Sailing to Byzantium', how so?”

  “The fusion of art and life and beauty and death.”

  More laughter.

  Rachelle: “I'm impressed, and still, how so?”

  “I'm interested in the similarities in the creative process, between the colors on a palette and words on a piece of paper. It seems to me, in writing, the artist has only words, which are abstractions of thought, whereas a painter, a sculptor has materials, paint, clay, canvas, etc. In music there are instruments. A writer has only a piece of blank paper or a computer screen, whatever ... the creative process.”

  She recalled his written request for permission. She tilted her head, waiting.

  He continued, “I also wonder about beauty among the beasts and I want to explore yo—that.”

  He noticed silence from the other students, some mouths open.

  Rachelle waited. “Go on.”

  “When I see a striking sunset I hear a voice....”

  Snicker. Chuckle. Snort.

  Rachelle, “Go on.”

  Seth: “…saying 'try this one ... and I paint the sunset ... but when finished, you have only a painting. Even less so when you try to describe a sunset with words. See what I mean?”

  Rachelle said, “I think so.”

  Seth smiled, “And then there is a beautiful woman.”

  Snickers.

  Rachelle, intrigued, “Go on.”

  “Kind of like, what did the Creative Force think when he sat down to create all this.”

  Doris Brady said, “How do you know, if there is such a thing, the Creative Force is a he?”

  “Whatever.”

  Rachelle said, “And?”

  “Well, look around,” he looked at Doris, “She must have gotten bored, because here we are competing with the stars.”

  Rachelle looked into his eyes and said, “And Pizza Pie.”

  She remembers, he thought.

  Student: “What about music?”

  Seth said, “I guess you could sing a cappella.”

  Laughter then silence then front row Susan spoke, “Can my project be a term paper?”

  Laughter.

  Rachelle, moving to the front of the room, said, “Did I miss something or did Seth upset the creator’s cart?”

  Laughter.

  Susan, “Well, could it be?”

  “On what?”

  “My trip to Phoenix.”

  “Wet or dry heat?”

  “Either way.”

  “No.”

  “But....”

  “Try.”

  Seth noticed front-row Don limply raise his hand.

  “Yes?”

  “What if I don't have an idea, I mean for a writing project?”

  “Drop the course, go into law.”

  Mary Dilts said to Rachelle, “Who is your favorite writer?”

  “Me.”

  Laughter.

  Rachelle: “Not really, I have many favorites, see our reading list.”

  Mary: “What about descriptive sex.”

  “I prefer wine to X's and O's.”

  Laughter, some chuckles.

  Seth, Blah blah blah. I think I love you.

  After ten minutes of questions and comments, Rachelle said, “Okay, enough for today. Please look over the syllabus, if you feel the course may be too demanding, not what you thought, you have a week to drop out, change majors, become dentists, lawyers, President.”

  She paused and Seth saw that she was looking at him.

  What is this feeling like water being sucked down a drain, a leaf in a stream, flowing with swift moving water toward the spillway of a dam.

  Rachelle: “Any questions from our art major?”

  Is she flirting with me or what? Damn! I'm going over the edge. “I was wondering if you ever did any modeling?”

  Laughter, a howl, a whistle.

  “Anything else?”

  Didn't say no, Seth said to himself as he made a note for future reference.

  Fat chance, reference for what? He thought.

  “Now, I won't hold you today. For next class please be ready to discuss

  Thomas Wolfe's short story, The Far and the Near. Also, begin reading John Gardner's On Moral Fiction. Thank you for your attention and if there are no fu
rther questions, see you Wednesday.”

  She looked at a raised hand. “Yes.”

  “Are you going to have a final exam?”

  “Didn't we go over that?” She paused, “any other questions?”

  “When's the writing project due?”

  “Read the syllabus, April 1. Please read your syllabus. All this information is in it.” She looked at Seth who was sketching her. “See me to set up appointments for individual conferences on your projects. Of course I'm available any time if you encounter a problem.”

  Seth, sketching the fleshy middle of her nose, looked up. Anytime?

  She looked over the class again. “Any other questions?” She paused.

  “Good day then and,” she paused and looked straight at Seth, “write write write.”

  As the students started to leave, she said almost reflexively, “Oh, Seth, could you please see me before you leave.”

  He dropped his pencil.

  A few students hung around, chatted, and in a few minutes, Rachelle alone, Seth picked up his pencil and went to her.

  In something like a sigh, she smiled, “Mr. Trudow.”

  “Dr. Zannes.”

  Only inches from her, he was overwhelmed by her fresh fragrance, magnetism, warmth and the everything about her that was sucking him in. Amazing.

  She smiled, “You are a senior?”

  He smiled, We went over that, “Yes.”

  “Art major?”

  We went over that also, “Yes.”

  “Why creative writing?”

  We went over that too. “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “This should be an interesting class. See you Wednesday.”

  She put the computer printout and extra copies of the syllabus in her attaché.

  He said, “Did you know you have a Picasso nose?”

  She looked at him like she tasted sweetened cereal for the first time, “Blue, Rose, or otherwise?”