by G L Rockey
“Come on, you're being ridiculous. I love you.”
“Go sing.”
“What are you doing later tonight?”
“I don't know, go home, I have a ton of work to do, but….”
“But what?”
“Laura might be there.”
“Are you shittin me? I thought you had ... what do you mean, might be there?”
“She just showed up this morning, spaced out, like she had slept at my door, what was I supposed to do?”
“Kick her ass out, that's what you're supposed to do.”
“I couldn't do that.”
“You're hopeless. I'm going to finish my gig then come to your apartment. If she's still there I'm personally going to kick her ass out, then rape you.”
“No, you're not.”
“Wanna bet.”
“No and don't even think about it.”
****
Seth took a bus, got home. Not knowing what to expect, afraid what he might find, he opened the door to his apartment and stopped—stale cigarette smoke, smell of alcohol, marijuana, the stench of vomit.
He heard water running in the bathroom. The door partially closed, he pushed it open. The tub overflowing, Laura, nude, lay on the floor. An empty Asti bottle lay to one side. To the other, a spoon, syringe, and cigarette lighter. A thin rubber tube dangled loosely from her outstretched left arm.
Vomit on the floor, he swallowed hard, stepped around her, turned the water off, then knelt beside her.
“Laura.” He felt her arms, wrists. Cool, but she had a pulse.
He managed to get his arms around her, pick her up and drag her to the kitchen where he began stumbling with her to the living room, back and forth.
She rambled and he thought he caught her smiling. He let go and she fell to the floor. He got her up and after a half hour, coffee into her, he put her to bed
He tried to sleep on the sofa. But he had visions of that greyhound dog's throat being slit at Laura’s Valentine party. He went to the bath, locked the door, spread a towel, and slept on the floor. Maybe all this was a sign, a really good season to get way from everything in this nutty nightmare story of his life.
Split, leave the insanity, chuck it all. Re-up. Damn this insanity....
****
In the morning, when Laura had awakened from her stupor, Seth sat her down and told her eye ball to eye ball, for the last time, it was over, done, could never be, they were worlds apart, and that was it. He didn't love her. He wanted to say he was sorry if he misled her but he knew if he showed any sign of weakness she would read mountains into it and he would be right back in the soup.
“Laura, do you understand what I'm telling you? It's over.”
In a trance-like stare she listened but didn't seem to hear. He repeated everything.
She left quietly.
PART V
CHAPTER ONE
Friday, April 23
Two weeks before the end of the spring semester, Easter break coming up, Rachelle stewed in a quagmire of indecision. Divorce lawyer Sam Hunt wanted to skip counseling, go for Carl's jugular. But soft touch Z preferred civility.
Stewing, she thought: Houghton Lake, alone, a long weekend, sail Esther II, accomplish some final course grading, think everything Carl through.
“Whataya think, T.S.?”
He stared at her.
“That's what I thought.” She called Larry's Marina and instructed them to get Esther II out of storage, ready for the summer.
As she packed to leave, Carl showed up.
It was a different cyborg-ish Carl that had evolved: hair dyed a ghostly white, pulled into a small pigtail, van dyke beard the same color, cold, distant swamp water green eyes brooding, lost, he had to talk to her.
She let him in.
He saw her suitcase in the kitchen.
“Where you going?”
“Houghton Lake.”
“I'll go with you.”
“I don't think that would be a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Carl.”
He began a litany, his arm killing him more than ever, he had been taking double doses of every pain killer known to science. His stomach was constantly upset and his bowels, “You wouldn't believe it, a rock.”
Then, touchingly, he presented Rachelle a wooden box with, on a gold
plaque, an engraving: CAPTAIN RACHELLE ZANNES BOSTICH
She opened the box and looked at a solid brass sextant. On knees, Carl apologized for his transgressions. Life had not been fair.
He rambled—on top of all his ailments, he was sick with worry about upcoming Senate hearings. WJJ management was anxious about bad press. On top of that, the Lions had suspended, pending the outcome of the hearings, his announcing contract.
Touched but detecting phoniness, Rachelle said, “What Senate Hearings?”
“Horse shit stuff, it'll be showing up in the press, gambling, NFL, don't believe any of it, lawyers, politicians trying to get air time, headlines, reelected.”
“I'm not following you.”
“That Senator Adaven has a bug up his ass. Thinks NFL games are being fixed.”
“Why would he think that?”
“That Tommi Gilmour was a creep faggot.”
“What's that got to do with it?”
“Gilmour was a guy!”
“I'm getting confused.”
“What exactly do you not understand, Professor?”
“Watch it.”
“Sorry.”
“What does Tommi Gilmour have to do with it?”
He looked at her sadly. “Dent.”
She expressed regret at the accidental death of Dent.
Carl snarled like all his miseries had suddenly disappeared, “Hah, accident.”
“What's that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“The plot thickens. And?”
“Dent might have been on the take.”
“You serious?”
“Yep.” He lit a Kool King.
Rachelle thought, Slick Dent. I had a feeling about him. What a phony baloney. Oh Kim you are so lucky to have someone like Timothy. “And what does this have to do with you, may I ask?”
“I'm an announcer, for an NFL team, remember, the Detroit Lions, knew both the, quote unquote, men in question, Tommi and Dent … dah.”
“Don't press your luck.”
“I'm sorry,” and he rambled: Senate hearings coming up, week after next, he had taken a week off to get rested. Looking at her bags, he humbled his voice even more and repeated his offer to drive her to Houghton Lake, they could get to know each another all over again.
Seeing a flunked freshman in need of a passing grade, once again her Pisces underpinnings flushed. She had not been the perfect wife, “Okay.”
****
Just after noon, the day sparkling with sunshine, top down, Carl driving his BMW, his light blue windbreaker flapped in the breeze. Passenger side Rachelle wore a white jacket over a white shirt and a green silk scarf tied under her chin. T.S. Eliot, his green M.S.U. wind breaker flapping, snuggled in her lap.
BMW speedometer reading 85 MPH, radar rapper on, the radio blared a Detroit Tiger baseball game.
Rachelle called over the rush, “You're going to get a ticket.”
A little past three P.M., Carl pulled into the drive of the Houghton Lake cottage. The packed gravel driveway, long and winding, led through towering pines and a dense undergrowth of giant rhododendron and evergreen shrubs.
Every time she went there, Rachelle recalled her father had designed the property for seclusion and privacy, wanted it that way, was where he loved to get away from what he called, the hammer of living.
The cottage—two bedrooms, a baths, large kitchen/dining area, small sunroom—was built of mortar and stone and nestled under a grove of pines. It sat twenty feet from the shoreline of Houghton Lake. A screen enclosed back porch overlooked the lake. A narrow wooden pier extended fifty feet out into the wa
ter.
Soon Esther II will be docked there, Rachelle thought.
Stopped at the end of the drive, this the first trip since their December flap, Carl took their two suitcases and, while T.S. Eliot explored, he and Rachelle went inside. The cottage stuffy, he dumped the luggage and opened windows. Rachelle checked the refrigerator, power left on, a half case of Budweiser and a liter of white merlot were chilled. She checked the pantry—a few canned goods but bare otherwise.
Carl took Rachelle in his arms. She allowed a kiss but stopped it when his tongue began to probe.
“When?” he asked.
“Later.”
He got a beer from the refrigerator, went to the sun room, flipped on the TV, and tuned in ESPN while Rachelle removed protective sheets from the furniture and unpacked.
Finished, she called Larry's Marina to confirm Esther II was out of dry dock, ready for pickup. Larry advised she was in the water, ready to go.
Carl drove her to Larry's, dropped her off, and told her he would go to the grocery store for eggs, milk, etc., meet her back at the cottage.
At Larry's, Rachelle and T.S. boarded Esther II, and, the cottage at the opposite end of the Lake, rather than sail, Rachelle started the 11 HP diesel engine and navigated a leisurely five knots to the cottage mooring.
Esther II tied off, bobbing gently, Rachelle returned to the cottage, finished unpacking then began to zap water for a cup of tea but scratched that and instead poured a glass of white merlot.
Savoring the wine, she noted the time, 6:15. She wondered where Carl was, had a hunch, dismissed it and hungry, opened a can of tuna and shared it with T.S. After eating she went to the porch, sat on the rattan sofa and T.S. joined her.
She had brought a few remaining Com. 501 student projects to finish before considering final grades. Sipping merlot, she picked up a project and read the cover page:
Com. 501
Dr. Rachelle Zannes
Seth Trudow
She paused and looked out at the lake. She remembered the call from Mr. Trudow's eccentric friend after which she went to the hospital to see him. Then she remembered things more distant: The first day of class, his demeanor, his “poem” answers. Their first conference meeting in her office, when they had talked of his project and her thinking someone special has been met.
She shook that off. In her years of teaching, there had always been students she remembered, those who stood out like special days in ones' life. No time for journeys into that unknown, not at this point in your career. She flipped the page and began to read:
BEN'S STORY
by Seth Trudow
Prologue
I, Mrs. Charles Archer, am the mother of Benjamin
Archer. Ben wanted desperately to be a writer but a terrible thing happened on the way to his dream. This is a story I found among the few effects that he left behind. Many small items, nothing of worldly significance. For you see, Benjamin, like the birds of the air, was not a gatherer of things but rather a giver, living for the day, never fretting over worldly possessions. Taking no fear for this or that, in love with life, he never looked back. He only looked forward. Here it is then, “Ben's Story.”
T.S. settling on her lap, Rachelle sipped merlot and continued to read. The story is a story within a story about Benjamin Archer. His mother has found a manuscript that he was working on titled “That Green Feeling”. Written in first person, the antagonist of “That Green Feeling” is Matt James, a freshman at Rathmore Prep. Flunking English, he is required to take extra instruction so that he might continue to his sophomore year. His wealthy stepfather arranges summer tutoring. Matt, fifteen, his tutor is Abigail Fuller. She is an attractive woman, forty years old, married, no children. She is an English teacher at the elementary school on Nantucket Island. Matt's parents divorced when he was young, Matt lived with his grandmother on Nantucket, attended the elementary school there. Abigail assigns Matt weekly writing assignments to improve his English, spelling, composition. When he is around her, he experiences uncontrollable urges to touch her. He calls the urges “that green feeling”. He finds himself thinking of Abigail all the time. Her honey-brown hair, flowing to her shoulders, excites him. Abigail's husband, Boris, is a real estate salesman. Matt senses that Abigail is lonely. When Boris is present, she is tense. One day he noticed a bruise on her cheek. He dreams of a beautiful spring day when they go on a picnic. Birds sing. Water gurgles over stones. Everything in harmony, he holds her hand. They make love on the grass. He awakens from the dream and knows he must do something, anything.
Rachelle noted that the story ended abruptly in the middle of a page. She read the epilogue which was part of Seth's overall story:
EPILOGUE
So there it is, unfinished, “That Green Feeling.” We will never know how the story would have ended. For you see, Ben just recently graduated from high school, a notice came in the mail. He was drafted by the Army. He went willingly. And as you now know, this story of Ben's ended like a pistol shot to the head. He was slaughtered, many years ago, in Viet Nam. Never had the opportunity to finish his story. I, a mother, may be prejudiced but I can't help thinking my Ben, after he had tended to the noise of life for a few years, experiencing the joys, the sorrows, would have been a good writer. Perceptive, compassionate, loved life so much, did he. Fascinated by the smallest things, the color of a leaf, the feel of water, the smell of baking bread, the sounds of a warm summer night, he savored life. It makes me sad but also bitter. I wonder how many have died short of the master plan. Or is that a woeful myth too. I wonder about all those who have died in wars past, lined up like sticks of corn by drunken generals in smelly tents dreaming of another star, politicians coveting an election. I wonder what it was like in Viet Nam, if my Ben thought, when he went there, he would be killed, die in that rot so someone could say he never lost a war. Warriors of Bubba and the good ole boy to deliver votes and a piece of the Big Blond. Millions of lives have been offered up over the centuries for a title of land, a gold star, a neighbor's wife. I fear we are on the path to our own destruction. Trained killers killing each other over lines on a map, destroying the air, earth, the place we all live. Kill kill kill, WIN! So the hags of war blend their deadly brew and the great unwashed sigh and the world goes on. But when contemplating the drugged beasts of power that sacrificed my Ben on the altar of gluttony, I wonder how many “voices” have been lost and for what and why and for whose glory? I don't know. I look around and wonder, “Is it all a glorious accident or are we a little speck in the grandness, alone or just another in a billion specks of nothing. More cruel, if life is meaningless, if this going-about-living-business, rutting a few years over a few scraps of sensual pleasure, a thousand years of tin ears to the universe and nothing, is life worth it? In any case, I fear that we as a species should be much further along by now. If there is a God, He must weep.
THE END
Rachelle held the manuscript to her breast, stood and walked to the dock. She sat on the stern of Esther II and studied the sky, gray streaked, turning into night. Stars were beginning to appear, an emerging crescent moon.
She smiled.
CHAPTER TWO
On the way to the grocery store, Carl had stopped at a familiar GetGo Tavern. At the crowded bar, Mike, the owner and bartender, introduced him to Al Marsh. Al ran the local Bait & Tackle shop. Al remembered Carl's football playing days. Al had been fishing and had a healthy string of walleye in Mike's cooler. Carl bought a round, then Mike, then Al and then Carl bought the bar a round and more rounds were bought for Carl.
CHAPTER THREE
9:30, Rachelle wondered briefly again what had happened to Carl, had an idea, the GetGo Tavern.
Rachelle Rachelle Rachelle, she said to herself.
Returned with T.S. to the back porch, she heard car doors slamming, laughter and then Carl and a stranger came staggering through the screen door.
Reeking drunk, Carl introduced equally drunk Al then held up Al's stringer of walleye, �
��Loo’ at ‘is catch,” he said to Rachelle.
Rachelle stepped aside as the two drunks stumbled to the kitchen. Carl threw the fish on the counter next to the sink, and called to Rachelle, “Get your ass in here Professor, clean `ese fish up, Al and me is hungry.”
After a pause to cool down, Rachelle went to the kitchen to throw Al out and put Carl to bed.
Before she could do or say anything, Carl, getting beers from the refrigerator, said he wanted the walleye fried with chips on the side.
Rachelle went to the pantry got two cans of beans and, smiling broadly, threw them on the table, “Dinner guys, enjoy.”
Carl took a stainless steel boning knife from a drawer and waved it in the air. “I said, we want fish.”
She laughed.
He flashed the blade in her face. “We want fish.”
T.S. sniffed at fish blood dripping to the floor, Rachelle picked him up, went to the bedroom, closed the door, and locked it.
Carl banged on the bedroom door. No response, he kicked the door then, singing the Notre Dame fight song, and with the string of fish over his shoulder, left with Al for the GetGo bar.
Hearing them leave, Rachelle changed into a night shirt, went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of white merlot, drank it quickly, then poured another.
She took the wine to bed and, T.S. nuzzled up to her side, she sipped, started to read a Communication Journal article. After the first paragraph, she didn't know what she had read. Her mind swam with the fact that she had yet made another lollapalooza mistake.
How could one, supposedly educated, be so naive about the opposite sex, pick such losers?
T.S. yawned widely.
“Oh shut up.”