Truths of the Heart

by G L Rockey

  Elisabeth being one of the gatherers, smirked a look at Rachelle. “You should get some soda on that stain, dear.”

  Rachelle smiled.

  Blane held up his glass, sighed, said, “I really do need something more in this drink.” He looked at Rachelle and mouthed, Or eat.

  She looked down.

  He chuckled, put forth his glass, and touched Rachelle's arm. “Would you mind, anything will do … a glass of that wine or sherry or whatever the hell that blonde is serving over there.”

  Elisabeth, grabbing his glass, said, “I'll get it.”

  The reception ended shortly after 10 P.M. A light rain, wet leaves covering the roadway, Carl with a wine and sherry load on, nevertheless refused to let Rachelle drive.

  Except for a burp or two, smoking a Kool, driving, Carl was silent. Finally Rachelle said, “That Blane is a character.”

  “You were fawning over that phony son-of-a-bitch pretty good.”

  “I was not.”

  “Looked like a teenager sucking up to rock star’s jock strap.”

  “You're insane.”

  “You're nothing but a whore.”

  “And you are a jerk asshole.”

  “I don't know why I drove all the way over here to go that goddamn goon moo-u party.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “And I have to turn around and drive back to Detroit tomorrow morning and for what … if you'd move to Detroit....”

  “Shut UP!”

  Windshield wipers flapping, slick streets, lights a glare, Rachelle, married just a little over two months, for the first time, thought of the D word. The thought made her slightly sick to the stomach. Then she realized she was actually afraid of Carl and how stupid the whole thing was.

  ****

  Home, Carl sulking, he made himself a rum and Coke, turned on ESPN, stretched out on the sofa, and watched a college football game.

  Followed by T.S., Rachelle went upstairs where she undressed, drew a tub of hot water, lowered herself into the tub and, as the water rose around her, leaned her head back and closed her eyes: Get through this school year, then in the spring, you have to do something.

  To escape that thought quagmire, her thoughts went to Blane: He thinks he is more than he is. Full of himself. Bet after a few drinks he has trouble with his winkie … maybe not … I'll never know, don't have any desire although I think he would like to get me in the sack … THINK! And I, naughty naughty, had a fleeting thought … wonder how many coeds he'll....

  She heard a noise and opened her eyes. Carl, naked, his hugeness stone erect in her face, stood at the side of the tub.

  Later than night, Carl zonked, snoring, she slipped out of bed and went to the sitting room, took up her journal and wrote:

  And you're the one with the Ph.D. What was that Kim said about you, a brilliant mind, promise in affairs academia … but in affairs-of-the-heart, Dear Z, you are a total disaster. This is like waking up and finding a stranger in your bed. I don't know this person. Or did I know him and ... and what? Are you a sucker for male largess? Yes, but not this way. Okay, maybe I made a mistake. Not okay and not maybe. You made a lollapalooza. In Carl speak, fucked up big time!

  The question is now, how do you get out? I'll tell you how you'll get out. DEAD. Write stupid on the blackboard one hundred times … make it five hundred. You self-destruct Doc, big time, every time. What is it with you!!!!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Through October, as the semester progressed, when Seth sought to make eye contact with Rachelle in class, she ignored him, distant, detached, like she was another person. He could see it in her expression, feel it in the way she carried herself. He sensed she was trying to escape, get out, trapped, as if some sci-fi movie monster, at arm's length, pursued her.

  He thought he'd cut class to see if she noticed. He did. When he went to the next class, nothing, she didn't know he was alive.

  “Blah blah blah and nuts to it all,” he said and had cut class the last two sessions.

  To put this apparition behind him, out of his mind, glorious Indian summer sun drenching the last Sunday in October, Seth determined an escape: get out in nature and paint.

  He quickly dressed—khaki trousers, gray sweat shirt, boots, packed up his painting equipment and stopped in Tony's Deli. Tony not there, his wife Jo waited on him. He bought a large bag of Corn Nuts, a Baby Ruth candy bar and a quart of bottled water.

  Determined to drown his restlessness, Seth took a city bus south to the end of the route, then set out on foot up a slight hill, further, through sun streaked trees, over fallen leaves turning a zillion shades of yellow, red, sienna, magenta, past a shimmering pond. The sky a metallic cerulean blue, titanium white puffy clouds, he walked past a large oak tree to an elevated spot overlooking a falling fence around an old red barn with a duck pond in the foreground. He stopped, set up his easel with an 8x12 canvas, opened his paints, took a two-inch brush and began painting in broad strokes.

  As he worked, as he often did, he talked aloud: “Straining to see, eager to know, wondering this now, is it reality or a grand show put on by the grandest of grand no shows.”

  Talking to himself, he knew he painted to suppress his maddening desire for Rachelle.

  “This apparition, this truth doesn't go away like a simple bout with swine flu. It's some indwelling thing that becomes a part of your breathing, thinking. Where did she come from, all that beauty is not an accident … this gut wrenching craving for her, in my mind, driving me nuts. What is that, the need to ... there has to be more to this than a roll in the grass. Damn!

  “And the little notes from her on my assignments, good, keep working, better, excellent! Try again. What does this mean? Think about this in first person. What is he thinking here? Try this this way. Watch your spelling. Nice touch. I like this.

  “And you trying to read volumes of hidden meanings into the comments. Did she see feel for me when she wrote the notes? Why don't you just go to her and tell her how you feel.”

  His thoughts soared on that and then, as always, the bottom fell out. “Damn, damn, damn, I'm going to drop out, re-up in the Air Force. I can't stand it. Blah blah blah … she's changed, I feel her distancing herself … like she's running from something … the first time I saw her I felt like ... I don't know, I sensed something … but now … she's a cold slab … nothing … you tell me … is it me or … damn! Something is smothering her, that spark I sensed first day of class seems like a thousand years ago, is gone. At first, when I smiled at her she smiled back. But now she looks away, distant, doesn’t know me. Probably thinks I'm a voyeur fool ... she might be right. Did I only imagine there was something there?”

  As he worked on sketching in the barn. “I skip class to see if she noticed. Nothing. I'm an empty chair. I can't bear to look at her, hear her, smell her, waiting for a glance like a lap dog waiting for a stroke, ignoring me … it drives me nuts, and then, the dreams, the insane dreams.”

  Painting, he recalled two of the more recurring dreams:

  Rachelle steps from her sea shell into his arms and she is wet and they make love on the pearl of her sea shell and the shell closes around them and they are in a heavenly cocoon of softness and then some giant opens the shell and the giant, smacking his lips, has a white napkin tucked under his chin and a big smile on his face.

  Another:

  He looks at a painting of Rachelle's mother. The painting is on an easel next to a casket. When he steps to the casket he sees, wearing a white wedding dress, Rachelle. Her face waxed hard, her eyes closed, hands crossed over her stomach, she clutches a dozen wilted roses.

  Another:

  Rachelle and he walk among ancient ruins. She, dressed in a white flowing dress, her hair touched by a light breeze, they hold hands and are imbued with each other's thoughts.

  “It's maddening.”

  He brushed thick strokes of titanium white in the blue of his painting’s sky. “I have never touched her, except to shake hands, yet she
sticks in me like an addiction. If that creation story were so, I can imagine how Adam must have felt, when he saw, picking fruit, a nude Eve. And when she offered him a bite, he took and ate. If Rachelle offered me a bite of apple, knowing that history would be damned forever, I'd eat the whole damn tree, bark and all, everything, bite, bite, bite, eat it, core skin and everything, chomp, chomp, chomp.”

  Jabbing the canvas with a brush, “But blah blah. It is not to be. Jude was right. Dear Jude. I fear for her … she's so talented, beautiful, and there are so many hick pickers out there.”

  He wiped sweat from his face then, work on the oak tree's gnarled trunk, finished, and he paused to snack and drink some water, then continued in a flurry of inspiration.

  Time passed and, pleased with the landscape he had painted, the sun setting, the day still warm, he packed up and headed home. At his apartment, his sweater and shoes removed, a glass of milk and peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich consumed, having fallen asleep on the sofa, Seth awoke to a tapping at his door.

  It was Laura. She had on her familiar trench coat, slightly open, underneath she wore a red T-shirt, tight fitting designer jeans, and black high heel shoes. Clove scent strong, entering, she handed him the customary brown paper bag, said, “You look like you've been sleeping.”

  “I've been working … have some class work to do.”

  She let her coat fall to the floor, “I'm going to have a key made so I don't wake you.”

  Bet on it. Yawning, he went back to the sofa.

  “Let's see what you've been working on.”

  “A landscape....”

  She kicked off her shoes. “First I'd like a glass of Asti.”

  He opened the bottle and poured her a glass.

  She lit a chartreuse Eve cigarette and studied the wet landscape painting he had just finished. “Nice.”

  “Thank you.” He handed her the glass of wine.

  She began studying, scattered around, the many sketches of the woman she did not know was Rachelle. “Who is this bitch?”

  “It's no one in particular, just studies.”

  She went to a roughed in oil painting of the same woman, on another of Seth's easel, and studied it.

  After a moment, she said, “You would never lie to me darling, would you?”

  “Never.”

  Pulling her T-shirt off, “I want you to paint me.” She unzipped her jeans, pushed them to the floor, and stepped free. “Pretend my body is your canvas.” She too k a one inch brush, smeared some paint from his palette on her stomach, and held the brush out to him.

  “I'm not going to paint on you, you're nuts.”

  In a sweeping movement she swept the sketches of Rachelle to the floor. “Cute, real cute.”

  Moving quickly, she punched a hole in the oil that resembled the sketches.

  “Get out.”

  She began laughing hysterically.

  He sat on the sofa, “Laura, I want you to leave.”

  She laughed loudly, got on her knees, barked, crawled to him, sat on his lap, bit his ear. “You're mine, Trudow, mine, forever.”

  She moved to unzip his fly.

  “No.”

  “You don't understand, I want you now or I'll kill you.” She put the fingers of her left hand around his throat and with her right hand stoked his groin. “I've divined it.”

  He pushed her away, “I'm serious, when you get like this, not only do I not love you, I don't even like you.”

  She stroked him and purred, “Don't you know that love is more dangerous than hate? People suffer in the name of love, then they kill. In hate you can skip the suffering, there's only the killing part.”

  He pushed her off him. “Go home.”

  “Bastard,” she hissed, lashed out with extended fingernails and scratched his neck.

  He went to the front door and opened it. “Laura, you're looking for a piece of some lost puzzle and I'm not it. Please leave.”

  She laughed, went into the bedroom, and called, “You're mine Trudow, forever.”

  He sat at the kitchen table and thought, Now what are you going to do? She thinks she has special powers over you. You should have seen it. What scares me most, I think there is a side of me that likes her kinky stuff. What is that stench floating around the home of humanity? You are so naive, Trudow.

  He felt a presence and looked. Laura, nude, stood staring at him.

  He walked past her and started to put his shoes on. “I'm going out for a walk, when I get back, I want you gone.” He pulled his sweater on and looked at Laura.

  She held a kitchen knife in her hand.

  PART III

  CHAPTER ONE

  January

  The Bostich's Christmas and New Year holidays a series of standoffs, the NFL playoffs in full swing, the Super Bowl just weeks away, Carl was back in Detroit. Upon arrival at WJJ for his afternoon show, he found an interesting message. It was a “please call” from none other than High Five club owner, Tommi Gilmour. He called her. She invited him, this very night, to dinner at the High Five. The High Five limo would pick him up.

  “When's a good time?” She said,

  “My show's over at 6:00, how's 6:30?”

  “Fab, my driver, Gus, will be there, 6:30 sharp.”

  Radio show over, Carl tidied up in the men's room and went to the WJJ lobby. Gus was waiting.

  Carl said, “Hi Gus.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Carl remembered Gus. He resembled a frosted Classic Coke bottle—white crew cut hair, red turtleneck sweater, black suit, black leather gloves. His close-set beady brown eyes seemed to be sending messages to invisible aliens.

  Carl, dressed in a maroon sports jacket, white turtleneck, and camel overcoat, followed Gus to, parked curbside, the familiar High Five limo.

  Carl inside, his door closed, Gus gripped the limo's steering wheel like it might run away. Carl relaxed in the back seat, they were off, and Carl pressed Rachelle's cell phone number.

  She answered flatly, “Hello.”.

  He spoke like everything was normal, “Hi babe, what's going on?”

  “I think there's a new Middle East peace initiative under way.”

  “What's that mean?”

  “I was thinking of us.”

  After a few second of contemplation, Carl said, “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Tommi Gilmour invited me to her joint for dinner.”

  Not impressed, “My. Is Dent going too?”

  “Didn't ask, don't know.”

  “Too bad.”

  “What's a matter?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “You sound, funny.”

  “Funny as in what?”

  “Funny.”

  “Oh, that funny.”

  “Cold there?”

  “Seen worse.”

  “See you Friday night.”

  “I must tell you, I'm going to be busy most of the weekend, finals, grades, getting ready for spring semester.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “I'm just telling you, that's all, so you'll know. I won't be home most of the time.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Me too, you.”

  CLICK.

  Gus pulled the limo into the High Five's black topped parking lot that spread out around the two story establishment like chocolate frosting on a flat one-layer cake. He drove to the side of the building, pulled up to a wide brown garage door, and stopped. A security camera above the door scanned the limo then the door yawned opened. Gus drove in and stopped beside a silver Rolls-Royce. He told Carl to wait, got out, pressed a buzzer beside a back door, looked into another camera, spoke briefly, and a lock buzzed opened. He motioned for Carl to come on.

  Carl got out of the limo and walked to where Gus stood at the opened door. Gus nodded for him to enter. He did, the door closed behind him and he looked up a long narrow staircase.

  At the top, thirty steps away, Tommi stood. Her hair bright red
tonight, her green ankle-length dress sparkled. She held a silver cigarette holder between left index and middle finger. In the holder a cigarette smoldered. She called down, “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  Carl started up the stars. Half way he noticed a dank body odor. He mumbled, “Place smells like a cat house.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, long set of steps.”

  Arrived at the top, Carl looked at Tommi's glistening red lips. She flashed a broad smile, took a puff and, exhaling, said with a husky accent, “Well hi there, Mr. Carl.” She kissed him on the cheek, “So sweet of you to come.”

  Carl took a deep breath, “Thank you.”

  “Don't tell me you're winded already.”

  “Never.”

  “Stinker. This way.” She started down a long white carpeted hallway.

  Following, Carl saw that she wore gold earrings that looked to him like some fried appetizer. Gold bracelets dangling from both wrists, he looked down, past her skinny hips, and noted her green four inch spike heels. He also noticed she walked like a bowlegged half-back.

  His shoes sinking into white wall to wall carpeting, he surveyed in passing the many gold framed oil paintings adorning red-on-mocha tapestry walls. He said to her back, “Nice digs.”

  “Well thank you Carl, let me show you around.”

  In and around ornate gold leaf furniture, Carl was presented Tommi's lavish layout: the white carpet and red-on-mocha tapestry featured throughout, a guest room with a double bed, private bath, and mirrored walls and ceiling. Tommi's master suite was equipped with a round bed set on a raised stage. Above the bed, like a canopy, hung a large heart-shaped mirror. Next door, an SUV-sized chrome desk accented Tommi's walnut-paneled office. Video monitors with views of various High Five location, faced the desk. A sauna and exercise room adjoined the office. From there they proceeded to the custom designed chef's kitchen that was nuzzled up to a formal dining room. The dining room had a walnut table with seating for twelve. And, next to the dinning room, a private elevator transported Tommi and friends to and from the High Five restaurant below.