by G L Rockey
Laura's face melted into ugly, she spit. “Fuck you,” stood and left the room.
Blinking like she had been pepper sprayed, Rachelle looked down at Seth.
He whispered through puffy lips, “Don't pay any attention to her. How'd you know I was here?”
Placing the flowers on the window sill, Rachelle asked, “Do you know a distant relative of Crazy Horse?”
He smiled in pain.
“Judging from that smile, you do.”
He nodded, “What'd she do?”
“She called me, advised that you had been in an accident. What happened?”
He whispered, “Stupid.”
She touched his arm, “I haven't seen you, how is your class project coming along?”
Electricity from where she touched him emanated up his arm. She smiled like she felt it too.
He looked at her eyes taking him in, her fragrance killed him and whispered, “I've been....” stopped in pain.
“Don't worry about anything, we'll work something out.” She touched his arm again
Another jolt.
She said, “Well, I best be off, just wanted to drop by, say hello, well wishes.”
“Stay awhile.”
She hesitated, thought, then sat in the chair beside the bed, “Who was that nasty woman that just left?”
“Photographer, friend.”
Just then in strolled Jude. She looked at Rachelle and sensed immediately who she was. “Hi.”
Rachelle stood, “Hi, I was just leaving.” She turned to Seth, “Well, Seth, I see you have plenty of company so I'll be leaving, see you soon, and take care.” She left.
Jude stepped to the bed and kissed Seth on the cheek. “Don't tell me, the apparition just left.”
“How'd you know?”
“The glow on your face.”
CHAPTER THREE
Laura, at Seth's bedside day and night, when Seth slept, told nurses, doctors she was his fiancé. She brought him Baby Ruth candy bars and Dairy Queen vanilla milk shakes. Jude, visiting, cold-shouldered Laura, wished she would leave so she could speak to Seth. Laura ignored her. Jude, not wanting to upset Seth, always left quietly.
February 22, a Saturday, Laura paying the hospital bill, a nurse said to her, “Doctor's orders, Seth takes it easy, bed rest for a few days.”
At Seth's apartment, Laura put him to bed and crawled in just to keep him warm. She had forgiven him and was sure he had forgiven her. She understood, he needed his freedom, those people at the Valentine's Day party were mostly drama students and she had thrown them all out forever.
In the midst of her explanation there came a distant pounding on the entrance door.
Laura didn't care to answer but Seth said she should. At the open door, Jude stood—buckskin jacket, jeans, brown western boots.
“What do YOU want?” Laura said.
“What are YOU doing here?” Jude said.
“Fuck you.”
“Why’d you sneak him out of the hospital like that?”
“I didn't sneak him anything. Go away.” Laura began to shut the door.
Jude jammed her foot on the threshold. “Slut, I want to see Seth.” She pushed the door open and entered.
Laura grabbed her by the hair, “You bitch....”
Jude turned in a flash and punched her in the face.
Laura screamed and lunged into Jude. They grappled.
Seth appeared, hobbling, “Hey, hey, you two, stop it.” He stood between them.
“Get her the fuck out of here!” Laura said.
“Drop dead, you slut!” Jude shouted.
“Stop it both of you,” Seth said.
“I want her out,” said Laura.
Seth said, “Laura, she is a friend of mine.”
“Out now!” Laura screamed.
“No,” Seth said.
“Okay, fuck you too.”
Seth pointed to the door, “Get out.”
“No.”
“Then be nice.”
Laura, fingernails pointed, lunged toward Jude's face.
Jude deflected her hands and shoved her to the floor.
Seth, “Laura, I'm asking you to leave, now!”
Laura standing: “Who brought you home, took care of you, bought you fucking Baby Ruths.”
Jude said, “Save it bitch, stuff it and stick it.” She tuned to Seth, “I'll leave, I just came to see if you were okay, call me sometime.”
Seth said, “Come over tomorrow, lunch.”
Jude shot her middle finger in Laura's face, “Hear that bitch,” and left.
Laura said to Seth, “You're not having lunch with that thing.”
“Oh yes I am.” Seth felt faint, ambled back to bed, and crashed.
****
Seth awoke to sounds of a tea kettle whistling. He got up and went to the kitchen. Laura, nude, stood at the stove watching water boil. A cup with a tea bag in it sat on the stove. He took the pot off the stove and began filling the cup.
She grabbed the cup and slung the water to the floor, some of it splashing on her legs. It didn't seem to bother her. She snarled, “Don't you dare touch my brew, you son of a bitch!”
“Laura, this is my apartment and you are going to have to leave, now.”
“I wish they had killed you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
With March daylight lengthening, in Seth stirred like an unfolding of something other worldly was taking place. The events surrounding Valentine's Day, Laura's bizarre party, the beating he took at Pudd’nheads, Rachelle’s visit to the hospital, the flowers, the way she smiled, moved, sighed, her eyes taking him in, her hair, her fingers, her skin, her smell, electricity when she touched his arm—it had to be one of two things—another world or a bad dream.
Laura not seen nor heard from for weeks, he had called Rachelle's office to make an appointment but assistant Kay gave him the “Doctor Zannes can't be disturbed” run around. Another time, she wasn't in. Another time, she had gone home sick. The last time, yesterday, he talked to her, set up an appointment for tomorrow, but she didn't seem to remember who he was.
How can that be? Why did she even come to visit me at the hospital? She didn't have to. She's playing me like a yo-yo, once smiling, warm, caring, then a million miles away, cold, indifferent, unavailable, driving me nuts.
He thought of writing her a letter, spilling his guts, telling her he loved her madly, couldn't stand it any longer, was transferring to another university, getting as far away from her as he could get.
She'd laugh you off the planet, kicks you out of class, call the cops. And what if she said, Good, maybe you should go to another planet. Then what do you do? This is nuts, you dreamer, forget about it, it's useless.
And he thought of her even more in the thinking of what to do.
Sitting on the side of his bed, Seth recalled the night just past had been a forest of vivid dreams with ghosts, frowning faces, demons, dead people alive, gap-tooth smiles, searing screaming heights and dark stomach-holding lows. In one he sculpted Rachelle from a block of marble. Every time he chiseled a piece of the marble away she smiled. He polished her breasts to a smooth finish and she became living flesh.
Damn!
He went to the refrigerator, got a quart of milk, went to his desk, and, behind in his course work, behind in himself, everything eating his mind, that repeat math course driving him nuts, he tried to work formulas but his mind was not in the mood for math's neat little pigeon holes. He craved impasto strokes, vibrant colors, thick smells, a smooth touch, a salty taste.
He looked at the many sketches of Rachelle hanging on the walls of his apartment.
If you died, and people found these, you'd get SICKO on your headstone. Rot. This is sick. So it is, so it is. What to do.
See Jude. No. Finish the class project, the story. Begin now and get it over with, get her out of your mind. She's a demon, that's it, she's a witch....
He smiled at himself, Rachelle is too beautiful to be a witch, you kn
ow that, she's a Venus, a diva, come to test me. Test no more, I'm tested, I love her, I want her, send me to hell as long as you send her with me … I can't stand it.
He opened his computer and accessed the class project he had titled “Ben's Story.” Ever since the initial rush, the story, mostly finished, had been stuck without an ending. Now he had one, he would write it so, when Rachelle read it, there would be no doubting his love for her.
The windows raised, a spring breeze billowed the thin white curtains. Scents of thawing earth. A flash of lightning, muffled thunder, it began to rain. Smelling the rain, he stared at his computer screen and, as ideas stirred, he began a final draft of “Ben's Story.”
A little after 5:00 A.M. he finished the story, ran a spell check, grammar check, and printed the manuscript.
Looking at the inch thick stack of pages, he leaned to look at it from a slightly different angle and fear nagged—Rachelle might not like it. Then he rationalized that it was only a class project and Rachelle must have read much worse. More intriguing, he realized that one of the things that had kept him working on the story through the past months was his need to please her, how he could have her. More to the point, he wanted his thoughts to be inside her, a part of her. These words, read by her, would be a part of her forever.
Damn!
“Tomorrow,” he whispered. “Tomorrow, I'll take the manuscript to Rachelle.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Asleep on his sofa, Seth woke to a light tapping sound outside an open window. He went to the window and looked out. Chirping sparrows flittered about a rain gutter and came a thought: birds, the world over, chirp pretty much the same language.
After a glass of milk and toast with pineapple jam, Seth showered, groomed himself and dressed. He chose slacks from a gray suit (the only suit he had), long sleeve white shirt (also one-of-a-kind), light blue sweater, and his black flight boots. As he readied to depart, he stepped to the desk and, before putting his manuscript in a manila envelope; he paused briefly and looked at the neatly stacked seventy five pages. It was almost as if he didn't want to part with the work. But the thought he had earlier—Rachelle reading his words, the words becoming a part of her … he put the manuscript in the envelope.
He had a thought: creative works or writings never live until seen, held, are read by another human being … a book not read is like a life unborn.
He smiled to himself. If things go smoothly, she gives me an opening, I'll ask her to pose for a painting, maybe even go to lunch.
Hope, promise of a new beginning, manuscript under his arm, he went to the door to leave, opened it, stepped into the hall and almost stumbled over Laura. He drew back.
Curled up, dressed in a black rain coat, she lay on the hallway floor. Her hair knotted, mascara smeared, smelling stale, she looked up at him.
“Laura, what in the deuces are you … are you insane!”
Pathetic eyes mooned up at him.
“Laura, get up.” He took her arm.
She stood.
He said, “What are you doing?”
She stared blankly through strangled hair.
He took her inside to the kitchen. Sat her at the table.
She said, “What's that under your arm?”
“A class project, I have to go to the campus, I have to turn it in.”
Picking her hair, “I'll wait.”
“Laura, get something to eat, make yourself some coffee, take a shower, I have to go.”
In a whisper she said, “When … you be back?”
“I don't know, I have classes, work.”
She handed him her car keys, “Take my car.”
“Laura … no. I'll take the bus. Get yourself cleaned up. I have to go. But listen to me. Are you listening?”
She nodded.
“When I get back you better be gone. It's over, understand. Understand?”
She folded her arms on the table and buried her face.
Seth, mind in a daze, arrived at Dr. Zannes's office at 9:50. Assistant Kay Jackson greeted him, “Good morning, Senior.”
“I have an appointment with Dr. Zannes.”
“Can't you say good morning?”
“Good morning … is she in?”
Flippantly she turned to her computer, began typing, and said, “Yes, she is.”
“Would you please tell her I'm here for my appointment?”
Keying information, Kay said, “She's in conference with Dean Rait.”
Seth said, “I'll wait.”
She stopped, looked at him, “She'll be awhile, last minute budget stuff, just came up. What did you want?”
“I have my writing project, Com. 501.”
“Oh, just that.”
“Oh, just that!”
“Chill out.”
“I'll wait.”
“Suit yourself. But, like I said, she'll be awhile.”
“No problem.” Seth sat beside the door to Dr. Zannes’ office.
He could hear voices, faintly, Rachelle, another male.
It became 10:30. Kay looked up from her keyboard. “Are you sure you don't want to leave that thing with me?”
“Thing, did you say thing?”
“Give me a break … okay, your project.” She stood and expanded her chest toward Seth. “Did you want a cup of coffee or something? Z could be in there another hour, then she has a luncheon.”
“Would you just please tell her that Seth is here to turn his project in, I have a class at 11:00.”
“Whatever makes you happy.” Kay went to Dr. Zannes’ partially opened door and rapped gently.
“Yes,” Dr. Zannes responded from inside.
Kay opened the door a crack more and said: “Dr. Zannes, excuse me. Seth Trudow is here to see you, he has his writing project … Com. 501, says he has an appointment....”
“Who?”
“Seth Trudow, Com. 501.”
Seth: She sounds like I'm some bar code on a box of cereal.
Rachelle’s voice: “Oh, yes, just tell him to leave it with you, and close the door, thank you.”
“Thank you.” Kay closed the door, smiled a cocky told-you-so, and said, “Hey guy, I tried to tell ya.”
Seth squeezed the envelope. His thoughts were upside down. Rachelle might not even read his words. This Kay bubble head would skim through his work, red pencil it, and throw it in a pile like yesterday's newspaper. Rachelle didn't even seem to remember his name. He felt betrayed, sick. His palms stuck to the envelope.
Kay, holding her hand out, smiled.
Gagging inside, he handed her his manuscript, left, skipped classes, lunch, wanted to skip it all, not hungry,
The rebuff killed him. Like spring's promise quashed in a foot of snow, he thought as he walked, just walked, walked, walked around campus, around, down to the Red Cedar. Walked and thoughts raced: I had stupidly thought I would be meeting with her, sitting at her conference table, looking at her, shaking her hand, smelling her, seeing her, talking to her. I even had the asinine idea of asking her to lunch. Even fantasized that she would go. Jerk.
He went to his shift at da Vinci's but, his mind a million miles away, dropping things, ignoring customers, he was sent home early.
Thoughts of going home, images of Laura still at his apartment … he didn't need this. He had to talk. He took a bus to Pudd'nheads. Entering the tavern, he heard Jude playing “They Didn't Believe Me”. He put a dollar in her case, made a little waved to her, went to the bar, and ordered a ginger beer.
Jude, seeing famine in his posture, face, movement, finished the song and went to him. “Tru, you don't look so hot.”
“Damn.”
“What?”
“Damn.”
“What?”
“Long night of doubt. I hate it.”
“What?”
“Art and all its skinniness feeling sorry selfishness. And for what? Give me money, not gifts. My stomach hurts, my chest hurt. My head hurts.”
“Like wow, what happened?�
��
He took one of Jude's Kents and lit it.
“You don't smoke.”
He inhaled deeply, coughed.
“Give me that.”
“You think this is a movie. This is real. I hurt.” He recited: “'O rose, thou are sick! The invisible worm, That flies in the night, in the howling storm, has found out thy bed, of crimson joy, and his dark secret love does thy life destroy.'”
Jude: “Oh, wow. What's that from?”
“'The Sick Rose,' William Blake.”
“It's the apparition isn't it?”
He stared into his ginger beer.
“I knew it, I told you.”
“That doesn't help.”
Rubbing his back, “Poor Seth.”
“This is crazy, I have to get out of this. Who needs this rot, for what, to get what, go where? I'm going to re-up. Uncle Sam feeds you, clothes you, houses you, pays you....”
“Kills you.”
“You gotta die of something.”
“Wow, original. Why don't you just go hang yourself, get it over with quick.”
“A dreamer, a rotten dreamer.”
“Marry me, I'll make it go away.”
“I love you too much.”
After a minute to think that over, she said, “So what did the apparition do to start all this moody blues do-a-diddy.”
“Nothing.”
“Come on.”
“I took my project over there and she didn't even know who I was. Didn't even know my name. I was some bar code on a box of cereal.”
“I told you before you were living in a dream world with her.”
“More help. Thanks. Why did you have to tell her I was in the hospital?”
“Oh, now it's all my fault.”
“Wish you had not done that.”
“No you don't.”
“Yes. I was getting over her.”
“Listen to you.”
“I was.”
“Maybe this is good, maybe this is the time to get her out of your system once and for all, futile anyway, and besides professors never read any of that project stuff anyway. Grad assistants do the grunt work.”
“Great, just great, more help. You could be a nurse, tending to hospice patients.”