Truths of the Heart
Page 12
Do I. “For the project?”
“Yes, some idea, what you will be working on.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Put it on paper,” she raised an eyebrow, “don't you think?”
“Oh, yes, sure, okay, may I walk you to your next class?”
“I'm just down the hall.” She lied.
“Okay, see you next class.”
“I hope before that … tomorrow morning, right?”
“What?”
“Next class is Monday.”
“Right....”
“John Gardner.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Seth's 5:00 P.M. “Art History” class over, he packed up and headed for Pudd'nheads. Jude's insight into everything would focus his search for a Com. 501 project.
Entering Pudd’nheads, he noticed that tonight Jude was dressed in a buckskin jacket with long fringes along the arms, matching knee length dress, and ankle-high suede moccasins.
Her violin wailed, “I Can't Get Started With You.”
He nodded to her, put a dollar in her violin case, sat where he always sat, and ordered a Ginger Beer. Watching Jude, he doodled a sketch of her on a white cocktail napkin.
Finished with her number, mild applause, Jude strolled over and sat beside Seth. “What's up, Tru?”
Before he could answer, she saw the sketch. “Hey, I want that, suitable for framing, I knew you loved me.”
“Later.”
“Ooooh.”
He frowned, “Nuts.”
“What?”
“The apparition.”
“Why did I not know that?”
“It's insane.”
“Sigh … I know of what you speak, I have this person, older, an artist, would die for, paint my belly button purple for, eat glass for, but alas, he ignores me like I was a baby sister, sitter, setter whatever.”
“You ever have those times, not so good time, when you feel it's all a waste of time?”
“Never.”
“I mean when you fear something will never happen.”
“Not on my worst day.”
He sipped some ginger beer, then said, “I have to come up with something special for a Com. 501 project.”
“You give me a pain in the head.”
“Something different.”
“Okay, pain in the ass.”
“Unique.”
“Cut off an ear, give it to her in a box.”
“Not funny. This has to be something spectacular special, good.”
“Seth, do you know to whom your apparition is married?”
“No.”
“I mean are you on this planet, my artistic prince, or what?”
“I try not to be.”
“Carl Bostich … name ring a bell?”
He remembered it, first day of class, the comment about the name being in parentheses on the chalk board. “No.”
“For shame, my prince doesn't know Bostich is a football icon.”
“I hate football.”
“None the less, my prince, Mr. Carl Bostich, the former Detroit Lions quarterback, is now the announcer for the Detroit Lions' football games, has his own radio show in Detroit.”
“You been playing Colombo again.”
“Somebody has to watch out for you … he played for the Lions until he got his arm smashed up couple years ago.”
“So why am I getting this lesson in sports trivia.”
“I just told you, dumbo, your apparition is married to him!”
“I wish you wouldn't call me that.”
“I wish you would get it … you have about as much chance of sniffing the good professor's armpit as a pig has at a Memphis rib cook-off.”
“I like challenges.”
“You're hopeless, I gotta play, wanna hear anything?”
“Beer Barrel Polka.”
She went to the stage, took up her violin and began playing with abandon the Beer Barrel Polka.
Some patrons were in shock at the uncharacteristic presentation, others smiled in wonderment. She smiled back and nodded to Seth at the bar. “For the gentleman at the bar, request.”
Finishing a twenty minute gig, applause, Jude returned and sat next to Seth.
He said, “I wish you wouldn't do that.”
“What?”
“Point to me like that, say I asked you to play that polka.”
“You requested it.”
“I was only joking.”
“I have an idea for you. Wanna hear?”
“Sure.”
“Write about a student who has a torrid affair with his prof, make it the apparition and you, hot and sexy, turn it in on red Gucci paper. Maybe Carl will read it, make it easy for you. He'll break your knees, you could be another Toulouse-Lautrec.”
“Funny.”
“Option two, you and I go to your place tonight and start chapter one. You can take notes, or I will for you. A bedroom scene, you are a lunatic, have captured me, an Indian Princess, born into wealth, billions. You chain me to your bed. Make me your sex slave. You try to release me but I promise you my millions to stay. And when you try to run me off, I tie YOU up and....”
”Stop that.”
“In chapter two, we run off to Tahiti and have a slew of kids, live in a grass shack, I walk on the beach, pick coconuts, the kids fish, you paint pictures of palm trees, sand, and parrots … you want to be another Gauguin.”
“Never.”
“Okay, so be Cezanne?”
“And what would chapter three be?”
“More of chapter one.”
“Good grief.”
“Are you still seeing that Laura slut?”
“No!”
“Liar,” she patted his hand. “I have one more set to play then I'll drive you home.”
“No.”
“Wait for me, please.”
“I have work to do.”
“Poop on you.”
She slid off the stool, went to her violin, and began playing, “I've Got You Under My Skin”.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Seth returned to his apartment just after 10:00 P.M. with no idea what to present to Rachelle (he smiled, he had thought of her as Rachelle) at tomorrow's meeting. Putting no-ideas aside, he worked on an assignment for a design class due in a week.
Working, his mind on Rachelle, he hesitated, If you had any backbone you would just go to her and ask her … ask her what? Hey, Rachelle, want to do lunch, how about dinner, I'll buy. She'd kick you out of her class in a heartbeat.
Just after midnight, thoughts maddening, design class assignment completed, he studied his sketches of Rachelle—a dozen different poses, more sketches of her than notes. Engrossed, he heard a tapping at his door. He went there, opened it, and looked out. Nobody. He looked down the hallway. Empty. He thought he heard a voice, haunting, lost, calling … he imagined a foggy night, a ship passing by… Are you kidding me? he said to himself. You and that insane Laura song, you are insane, get some sleep.
He stepped back into his apartment, closed the door and heard the tapping again. He opened the door. Laura, with a playful look on her face, said huskily, “Got ya.”
She handed him the customary brown paper bag, brushed past him, and dropped her trench coat. Standing in red high heel shoes, she was naked.
He said, “Did you forget something?”
She kicked her shoes off, “Come here.”
“Did you just tap on the door a minute ago?”
“Me?”
“Don't do that.”
She went to him and began fondling him.
He stepped away, “Laura, I have some work I have to get done for a class meeting tomorrow....”
Dragging him to the bedroom, “No you don't.”
****
That night she laughed, screamed, cried, tore her fingernails deeper than ever into his back, told him she couldn't get enough of him, demanded more in different ways, loved him madly, said, “If you ever leave me I'll kill myself.”
He awoke and checked the time: quarter to four. He looked, Laura was zonked. The dream he had just had seemed so real he could touch it:
A spring morning, he walked through verdant woods. The sun streaked through sparkling white budding trees. Glistening dew on sprigs of grass. Birds sang. The smell of new growth, spring rain. Then came an overpowering scent of citrus and there she was, Rachelle, darting among the trees as if she had wings. Laughing playfully, she beckoned him to follow her. Then suddenly falling leaves all around, then snow, winter, cold. Rachelle naked, he, with coat in hand, started to run after her but she vanished. Then suddenly, he was a child in a classroom. The teacher, Rachelle, she patted him on the head.
Now wide awake, he had it. Yes. He would do what Jude had suggested, send Rachelle a message in a story. If she got it … good, if she didn't … we'll get to that later, he thought.
He looked at Laura—still zonked, snoring. He eased out of bed, went to his computer, turned it on, sat, and began keying:
[Title here, I'll think of something later... ]
by
Seth Trudow
Com. 501
Story Idea draft
A story within a story … written by the mother of a son who has died young. His name Ben, he is drafted into the army, killed in Viet Nam. He was working on this story before he left for Nam. The story will be a story within a story. His mother has found this story among his things. She hoped, encouraged him, one day there would be a writer in the family … it would be him. The story Ben had been writing is about a male student who falls head over heels in love with his teacher….
Hearing a noise, he stopped, noted the time—4:45 A.M. Laura, nude, sleepy eyed, stood by his side. Yawning, she said, “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Nothing, go back to bed.”
From behind, she put her arms around him, “I want you.”
“No, I'm working.”
She gave him a small bite on the back of the neck, hissed, then went to the bathroom.
He thought a minute then continued typing:
Ben's story within a story is in first person. He is a freshman at an uppity prep school. He is flunking English. Has to take summer tutoring so as not to be expelled from the fancy school. A teacher is hired to tutor him....
Laura came out of the bathroom, wrapped one arm around his shoulder, and with her other rubbed his crotch. She said, “Come on to bed.”
He pushed her away, “Will you please, I'm working.”
“Fuck you.” She stomped to the bedroom. “Just fuck you, Trudow.”
He continued writing:
The student falls madly in love with the tutor. He is fifteen. She is 40, married. Her husband is a star in the entertainment business (might be nudging reality). They have a torrid affair. But the story within the story ends without an ending. Ben never finished it. Ben's mother, in an epilogue, laments that Ben, killed in a senseless war, never got to write the ending....
CHAPTER NINE
Thursday morning, Laura sent on her way, Seth ate a slice of buttered toast with pineapple jelly and sipped cold milk from a quart carton. His conference with Dr. Zannes looming, thoughts of the one-on-one presence with her, his palms were wheat-paste. He mumbled to himself, “What's with you anyway, Trudow? You've been around the world, ate with peasants, danced with the General's daughter … why in heaven's name are you nervous? Why am I nervous! Were the angels nervous when God was contemplating all this earth business? Why do glow worms glow?”
He finished his toast and began to ready himself for the big day. Showered, he shaved, brushed his hair and dressed in his best white long sleeve shirt, tan Dockers pants and black penny loafers, and pulled on a light gray sweater.
Seth arrived at Dr. Zannes' office at 9:45. The hallway door closed, he paused to reread the little notes and stuff on her door. He thought, is she, is this for real?
He noted that his remarks following Berlo's “Meaning are in People” had been treated with white out. He thought of writing it in again but … no no … scratch that, easy as she goes.
He entered, and there, at her desk, sat the familiar Kay Jackson. Her hair pulled back and pinned in a bun, she wore a short sleeve white blouse. Ignoring him, she typed on a computer keyboard.
He approached.
In a poor performance of disinterest, she looked up from her work and
said: “Oh, hello there senior, and what may we do for you today?”
“I'm Seth Trudow, I have....”
“How could we forget … the artist poet.”
“I have a ten o'clock appointment with Dr. Zannes.”
She nodded to a half-closed door. “She's with somebody now.” She stopped and turned to face him. “Did you write on Dr. Zannes' poster—”
Just then, the door opened and out walked the cocky jerk from Com. 501, what was his name, the famous writer dreamer guy, yes, Mark the klutz. Seth ignored him and he ignored Seth. Mutual disdain, but still Seth felt a tinge of jealousy.
Dr. Zannes appeared at her office door, radiant, smiling, hair flowing to the tips of her shoulders. She stepped to Kay’s desk, handed her some paperwork and said to Seth, “Mr. Trudow, come in,” and returned to her office.
Following Rachelle, Seth noted she wore a long sleeve white shirt tucked into toffee-colored slacks. A thin brown belt accented her slim waist and just-right hips. He had an urge to reach out and....
Inside her office he said, “Did you want the door closed?”
“Yes, please.”
At her conference table, she invited him to sit. He did and she sat across from him. Natural morning light from the window accented her honey brown hair.
A little over an arms length away, she placed her hands on the table top and said, “So Seth, how goes our art student?”
He looked into her eyes and the smell of her fresh citrus scent mixing with a hint of lavender soap swooned him. He remembered the dream of last night, her winging around in a forest.
She's killing me, he thought, killing me.
She tipped her head. “Hello.”
“Hi.”
“How goes our art student?”
“Good.” That's original, a stellar salutation she'll remember for all time.
“Reading anything?”
He smiled. Say something. “Yes.”
“Gardner?”
He lied, “Yes.”
“Good, painting anything?”
“Yes.”
He looked at the paintings on the wall, said, “Are those the paintings you mentioned, by your father?”
“Yes.”
“May I?”
“Of course.”
He stood and went to a twelve by fifteen inch oil of a small farm house that sat beside a stream; a young maiden fed a gaggle of geese. He noted the brilliant whites and deep blues and greens, sandy brown earth. The picture, framed in thick gold leaf, was signed—Eric Zannes. He touched ever so gently the rough surface of the painting.
Watching him, Rachelle felt a chill trickle down then race over her back.
Seth moved to three smaller paintings. One was a delicate still life of apples and pears. Another a sailboat, stern showing the boat's name, Esther II. The third was a portrait of a woman who resembled Rachelle.
Noticing his nose almost touching the portrait, she said, “That's a portrait of my mother.”
“I could have guessed.”
He waited for a response. Nothing, he went back to study the first oil, said, “Does your father live in the Lansing area?”
No response.
He looked at her.
She looked away.
Something's wrong, way to go, Setho.
She said, “My father died several years ago.”
“I'm....”
“It's okay, how could you know.”
Going back to the table, something invisible going on between them, he noticed the poster of T. S. Eliot and one of a cat. “I recognize the man but…?”
Sitting, “Your cats' name is T.S. Eliot?”
“No less.”
“Does he write poetry?”
“Eats it.”
Their eyes met in light laughter. Seth, as in a closet, hearing her words, she outside yet inside with him, subtle glances, wondering, catching the topaz light of her eyes, wanting to reach out and....
She said, “So, have you decided what to do for a project?”
Her fragrance killing him, he said, “I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I mean, yes, I have.”
“What is it?”
He paused then said, “It sounds presumptuous but I've been thinking of a novel.”
“Why would it be presumptuous, it's a class project. A short novel, novella perhaps. Do you have anything written, a synopsis?” She got up and walked to a white coffee maker on a table beside her desk and poured a cup of coffee.
Lost in her graceful movement he heard her say, “Do you?”
“What?”
“Have anything written?”
“Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
“I have some notes, a story idea.”
She held up the coffee pot, “Would you like some?”
“Please, black.”
She poured another cup, returned, handed him a white mug steaming with coffee and sat, “Did you bring your notes with you?”
Looking into her eyes, he remembered the time, as a six year old, he stuck a fork handle in an electrical outlet. Sparks flying, he couldn't let go. This was that.
Sipping, she said again, “Do you have the notes with you?”
I love you. “Yes.”
“Did you bring them?”
“Yes.”
“Did you want me to read them?”
He took from his sketch pad the page that he had printed last night.
She took it and read, paused, looked at him, he felt something click. She went back to the page and read again.
He watched her eyes moving across the words. What eyes.
Thinking, rereading, she sipped coffee.