Truths of the Heart
Page 13
What lips.
Time passed like a water facet dripping in the night.
She looked up at him.
She knows what it’s about….
“Well, that sound's interesting. I like it. Why don't you develop it, let me take another look after you've worked on it a bit more, could be a good beginning, get some flesh on it.”
Don't say flesh. “I will.”
Her lips parted in a smile—perfect teeth, perfect gums—he glanced to her eyes, perfect eyes that were looking into him. He could stay there forever.
How can this be? Why is this? He didn't want to leave, make something up, “But you know, I have this gnawing fear.”
“Oh, what's that?”
“A dream, I'm walking through a crowded airport and, holes in my pockets, gold coins are dropping all over the floor. I reach to pick them up and they are covered by earth and I dig them up and there is more and more coins uncovered. Millions of dollars but people walk around me, avoiding me, even with all the money I'm trying to give away.”
“I'm not a dream expert, but that sounds like possibly, fear of rejection, not uncommon for artists.”
Keep her talking, make something up: “What I fear more is, how does one know if one’s art is really good, lasting. I mean, how do you know … I mean, how do you know?”
“How do you know your paintings are good?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you'll show me sometime.”
Let’s go to my place now. “When?”
“Bring some in, our next meeting.”
Blew that one.
She said, “You're an artist, you have fear, we all do, but perhaps artists more so, sensitivity.”
“You think?”
“You care. Keep that. Never lose it. Develop your ideas … this story … I think you have something, say it in your own words, true to yourself. If you're not satisfied, change it, revise, revise, but be true to yourself.”
You're killing me.
She continued, “There will always be moments of doubt and dread and a loss of confidence, rejection, but be determined. Search for the truth, wherever it leads.”
I don't need to search any more. A spike of chill went through his brain, neck, back, toes. Keep the conversation going. “What about the length?”
“Length is relative.”
He glanced to her eyes. Yep. Smiling.
She tugged an ear lobe, “Remember, Thoreau, 'short book but it took a long time to make it short'. Speaking of length, look at the time … I have a faculty meeting at 11:00.”
Getting up, moving to her desk, “See you in class next Monday, work on that story, I think you might have something there.”
He stood. “I … I....”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering if....”
“Yes?”
“Nothing, I'll work on the story, thanks.”
“And don't forget, John Gardner.”
“I won't.” He left.
At her window, she looked out across the Red Cedar and thought, isn't that interesting.
Later that afternoon, driving home, Rachelle found herself thinking of Seth Trudow more than she should.
CHAPTER TEN
After Rachelle had convinced Carl, at least until the end of spring semester, that finding a Detroit apartment was the only sane thing to do, Carl went to Detroit. He saw Dent, explained the situation, bunked in on Touchdown for a few days. But Dent, with current live-in Donna, was not keen on Carl living there permanently. After a week, Carl leased a furnished apartment in Detroit's River Front Towers. The fifth floor one bedroom unit had a nice view across the Detroit River of Windsor, Canada. The lease came with covered parking. Carl insisted on an end slot, paid extra, to protect his BMW from scratches in the night. WJJ within minutes, Tommi's High Five blocks away, Carl settled into his new digs with an eye to the calendar and a finger on Rachelle's speed-dial phone number.
In and out of Detroit for Lions away games, his weekday radio show Playing for Keeps, had debuted September 16, 3-6 P.M. Carl made client sales calls in the morning hours, did his show in the afternoons, and in the evenings dined at one or two favorite restaurants. After dinner he usually found himself at Tommi Gilmour's High Five. He frequently ran into Dent who, on more than one occasion, had to “run to the upstairs apartment” with Tommi to “do some financial advising.” On the Dent evenings, Carl usually ended up on Touchdown in a friend of Donna's lap. Other nights, Tommi Gilmour arranged for High Five female staffers to escort Carl home.
Immersed in work and play, Carl nevertheless wondered, at least once an hour, what his living East Lansing trophy was up too. A truism he held: Once a trophy is earned, received, placed on a shelf, it can never be taken back. When he talked to Rachelle on the telephone, Carl reminded her regularly, as soon as the academic year was over, she would be moving to Detroit.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Four weeks into Carl's move to Detroit, he had been on the road every weekend announcing Detroit football for WJJ. This coming Sunday, September 28, would be the first game at home. Rachelle on notice, Carl called to remind her, as they had agreed, that when he was not on the road, she would come to Detroit for the weekend.
Oh but she couldn't, she had been invited to a reception being given by the M.S.U. President, Dr. Susan Weber. The reception, Saturday night, 7:00 P.M., at Weber's campus residence, was to meet and welcome visiting guest-lecturer, famous author, Frank Winslow Blane. Known for his hard-hitting detective stories, raw dialogue, and tongue in cheek style, his writing was acclaimed in literary circles as unique. He had won Delaware's Pink Pear writing award two years running.
Said Carl, “That’s bull shit, you're coming here.”
“I don't think so.”
“You come here or else.”
“Whatever, I'm going to the reception.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You'll never see me again.”
“I'm going.”
“Fuck you.” CLICK.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Saturday, September 27
Fall chill and light rain/fog mist around Lake Lansing, Rachelle readied herself to go to the Frank Winslow Blane reception. Combing her hair, she heard someone downstairs. She became a little freighted when T.S. scooted under the bed. She tiptoed toward the railing that overlooked the great room below and saw, walking toward the bottom of the spiral stairs, Carl.
He looked up, “I decided to go to the reception.”
She went back to the bedroom.
In a moment he entered, she said, “Don't you have a game tomorrow?”
“I'll leave early in the morning.”
She looked him over. “You better get dressed. Coat and tie.”
Silently, Rachelle pinned her hair back behind her ears with tiny silver fish barrettes and finished dressing—white ankle length cotton dress, half inch white heels.
Mumbling profanities, Carl changed to a camel sports jacket, white turtleneck sweater, gray slacks, and black loafers.
Downstairs, they donned matching tan trench coats and, upon leaving, Rachelle told T.S. to behave.
Carl driving his BMW, said, “This better be good.”
Rachelle, concerned that Carl be made aware of Blane's fame, explained: “Blane has written ten detective novels, ever read him?”
“No.”
“They feature a tough-lady private detective, Boolean Traveler.”
“That's nice.”
“His latest is Honey Comes Cheap, about a psychopath named T. Cum Riley.”
“Wonderful.”
“In the remote woods of northern Vermont, Riley hangs his female victims upside down in the basement of his cabin. Covers them with honey, licks them clean, then kills them. Thirteen female bodies found in the city dump, enter Boolean Traveler and Honey Comes Cheap begins.”
”You read that shit?”
“Escape, his characters are so real.”
Carl paused,
said, “We could be in Detroit, having a nice dinner.”
“Honey Comes Cheap has been on the Times' best seller list for the last ten weeks, is being made into an HBO Movie, and is nominated by Nate's Book Club for its book of the year award.”
“I can't wait.”
Entered the President Weber's residence, fifty or so people milled around, munching, sipping, conversing. Rachelle and Carl were greeted by President Weber: “Rachelle, how nice to see you … and this must be the famous Carl Bostich.”
Rachelle said, “Yes.”
Weber offered to shake and Carl did. She said, “We've heard so much about you, Carl. My husband always turns down the TV sound to listen to you and Corky on the radio.”
“What about you?” Carl said.
Weber smiled, “You must get something to eat, drinks, then, go meet Blane.” She nodded toward a large inner room with a brick fireplace flicking warm licks of yellow and blue flame. To the right of the white mantel stood Blane. A small group seemed to be hanging on his every word.
“Isn't he magnetic,” said Weber. “Go hang your coats in there.” She pointed to a side room. “Eat, drink is over there, I have to run.” She stepped to the door to greet new arrivals.
Carl deposited his and Rachelle's coat in the side room.
Rachelle, drawing attention like red neon in the night, Herb Smith, a fellow professor, walked up with a lascivious smile on his craggy face. “Hi there, gorgeous.”
Carl, returning from the coat drop, frowned down at Herb. Herb left.
Rachelle whispered, “Carl, don't be an asshole.”
“Takes one to know one.”
They looked around.
To one side, a table featured an assortment of spring rolls and quiche in six variations: spinach, cheese, broccoli, cauliflower, beets, and zucchini. For dessert there was oatmeal, alfalfa, and soy drop cookies. A large bowl of pink punch sat in the middle of the table. Beside the bowl a sign: SAVE THE ANIMALS.
To the other side was a portable hotel-looking bar behind which stood a tall blonde female in white shirt, red vest, and black bow tie. She served Michigan Creek wine (red or white) and sherry.
Rachelle said to Carl, “Want something to eat?”
He grumbled, “Rabbit food, I need a drink,” and headed for the bar. There, he said to the bartender, name tag: Rhonda, “Hi Ron, rum and coke, make it a double.”
“I'm sorry sir, wine only, red or white … and we have sherry.”
“What?”
Rachelle had followed, elbowed Carl, said, “I'll have white.”
Carl said, “Red.”
Drinks in hand she and Carl moved where writer Blane held court. A hum of conversion, a group surrounding him, Blane’s short red wooly-hair electric, his skin like dried beef jerky, his eyebrows raised, he presented Rachelle with a yellow tooth smile as he continued talking to the group.
Rachelle noted that his fingers fidgeting like they longed to be pressing something. His shabby brown slacks appeared slept in as did his black & white hounds' tooth jacket. A red polo shirt, two buttons open at the top, revealed a bush of rusty chest hair. Shifting his weight, he alternately slipped on and off his loose-fitting cordovan loafers.
Rachelle whispered to Carl, “Projects a novelist image quite well, don't you think?”
“Or pimp.”
“Don't you dare embarrass me.”
“What's my reward?”
“Come on, let’s meet him.”
Drinks in hand, they moved closer and Rachelle saw, practically on her knees in front of Blane, Elisabeth Sweetwater.
Elisabeth appears to have greased herself into those jeans, Rachelle thought.
Blane sipped from a tall glass which contained a clear colored liquid on ice.
Carl whispered, “Looks like this dick-head has booze, why not us.”
Blane overheard Carl and said, “Canada Dry my dear sir, on the rocks, I never drink alcohol, unless of course I need a kick in the ass to get the creative juices flowing. In that case, I may have a belt just before sunrise.”
Laughing shrilly, Elisabeth touched Blane's arm. “You're priceless.”
Rachelle whispered to Elisabeth, “Careful Lizzy, your spurs are showing.”
Liz put a hand to the side of her mouth and whispered, “Bitch.”
Rachelle smiled, “What brings you all the way from Central Michigan, Dr. Sweetwater?”
Elisabeth ignored her, noticed Carl. “Oh, my god, a real live broadcasting star, Carl Bostich.” She turned to Blane. “Frank, have you met the voice of the Detroit Lions?”
“I don't think so, but I have a feeling I'm going too. I do love soccer.” He grabbed Carl's hand.
Carl looked like he might throw up.
Blane, extending his right hand, looked at Rachelle with wide and wanting blue watery eyes. “And you must be Mrs. Bostich.”
Taking his hand, “Yes, how do you do. I've read all your books.”
He drew her in, locked her in a stare, and held on, “Which one did you like best?”
Carl snarled, “Honey Comes Late,” and headed back to the bar.
“What a nice man,” said Blane.
Elisabeth said to Blane, “So Frank, what do you think of the new wave of writers.”
Blane, seemingly in some mild pain, said, “Alas, I worry about today's word-slingers, wasting gutless hours and days, dying for their art, turning out mounds of ca-ca, and coming in the end to know they never had what it took? It is the bad ones who never know, though, that's the tragedy.”
He sipped then went on, “The problem today is too many artist wannabes, whatever, don't have a twat's ounce of creativity. I think it's fame, or maybe money, that's it, money, they want money. What it will buy, you know, stuff, cars, yachts, airplanes, sex urging in the night and they think the urging is unique … you know they read about what artists are like—moody, drink a lot, feel sorry for themselves, kind of dippy, so they think, I'm like that so I must be an artist. I can't paint, or write, or sing, or eat turkey off a bone … but I can cock a doodle doo standing on my head, so I must be an artist.”
Awed silence.
A tall skinny male said, “Could you be more specific.”
“No.”
Light laughter
Blane said, “Check that, yes. A naked mud wrestler, sliding her bottom across a ten-foot strip of canvas, voila, a masterpiece, and the critics swoon and write about the juxtaposition of this and that crack.”
Rachelle listened to Elisabeth’s loud chuckle and whispered, “Careful.”
Blane sipped his Canada Dry, “Ah well, it's humanity that gets screwed. The human race gets a lot of crap pawned off as art and the poor will do nothing because the poor never do anything except get poorer and have the gall to say they are blessed in their pity poorness, hungriness, and homelessness, and unbathedness, and their great numberness in the white bath house of the rich who got the gift from a queen or a king or a Hollywood father, birthed with a golden fork somewhere placed on a lip or cheek or a cavity where the sun don't shine. Forget brains, art, gifts, kiss his ring and smile. A gift of brain for the book or number, doctor or lawyer, why this art, this beggar of money, charade in beggars’ sackcloth, whining, pretending, lazy for nothing … work? What is work? Capitalists say work is making things people can use, benefit from, make the world go round. Get a job, play basketball, swing a bat, call a strike, Christ's sake, print money … make a tire, car, stove, give me money. Art. When you're done playing there, sonny go get a real job, do something useful. Make something people can get their hands on, eat, fill a niche or an itch, money money money.”
A plump female in pink, “Why Mr. Blane, you sound bitter.”
“Bitter, me, hell no, I'm just a writer looking for a warm place to bury my bone.”
Pump female again, “But don't you take money for your salacious art?”
“Jesus Christ, save me, what have we been talking about for the last five minutes?” He turned his back to her and
Elisabeth, standing close, got bumped. Red wine in hand, she took the opportunity to splash Rachelle's white dress.
Elisabeth, feigning surprise, “Oh milk toast darn, excuse me, I'm so sorry, Z. Just put some club soda on it, come right out.”
Blane stepped in and said to Rachelle, “I need a break, some fresh air.” He looked deeply into Rachelle's eyes. “Could I have a moment alone with you, my dear, please?” He took her hand and stepped to an enclosed sun room.
Blane, looking more deeply into Rachelle's eyes, “Who is that obnoxious asshole woman in black?”
“Oh, nothing, a former colleague.”
“I'm sorry about your dress.”
“It's nothing.”
“So my dear, which one of my books did you like best?”
“I liked them all.”
“Bless you.” Blane kissed the back of Rachelle's fingers and noticed Carl, watching from the vicinity of the bar. “And what do you do, my dear, besides minding to that hulk of a man over there hanging on the bar?”
“I’m a professor here at the university, communication.”
“You'll have to give me some pointers.”
“Anytime.”
Lust dancing in his eyes, still holding her hand, he said, “I'd like to eat you.”
She rolled her eyes, “Hardly.”
“You know, my latest book is being made into an HBO movie. We're looking for a female lead as we speak. Ever done any acting, my dear?”
“I'm flattered, but I don't think so.”
Blane said, “You would make a stunning heroine.”
Rachelle chuckled, “No no, not me, I'm afraid not, acting is not my cup of tea.”
“But you could learn, dear, there's nothing to it.”
“I don't think so.”
“It's just requires a little honey licking.” He wiggled his wiry eyebrows and sipped Canada Dry.
Rachelle blushed.
Blane looked at her bosom and whispered in her ear, “With those buns who cares if you can act.”
Amused, a red tinge at her cheeks, she smiled.
People gathering around, to Blane's displeasure, and he whispered in her ear, “Here comes the herd.”