Truths of the Heart
Page 20
Finishing the glass of wine in a gulp, she snapped the light off and fell into a deep sleep.
Dreaming of Com. 501, she awoke when she felt something at her feet. She stared sat up.
Carl. Naked. Smelling of smoke, beer and perfume, sucked her toes.
She pulled free, “Carl, you're insan—“
T.S. scooted under the bed.
Carl yanked the bed covers to the floor and pinned Rachelle to the bed.
“Carl, you're hurting....”
He smothered her mouth with his.
She pushed at him but he ripped her night shirt off, grasped her wrists in one hand, probed her with his other. Then she felt him penetrate hard and huge, responded and hated it.
****
Next morning, Rachelle arose early, took T.S., launched out in Esther II and sailed in a light breeze. Just before noon, at the far end of the lake, she anchored, and T.S. by her side, she sat in the galley, and took up her journal:
What a fool you have been. You had begun and then … Don't you see, he's a manipulating genius. You'll never get out of this … he's dangerous....
She felt a tug of sympathy for Carl, then wrote: Tug! What is with you, Zannes? How many times do you have to go down the gilded road before you get it!
She heard an outboard motor boat approaching then bump the side of Esther II. She went top side. Carl in a small rental boat was wide eyed and she thought he was going to cry. He had been worried sick. Esther II gone, he feared something dreadful had happened.
He boarded, hugged her and, the rental in tow, they sailed back to the cottage.
Later that afternoon, driving back from Houghton Lake, Rachelle’s mind whirled in a quagmire of frustration: should have listened to my lawyer, this marriage … is that what you call it … futile … but how to get out? And you let him … he’s staying the week. You're the PhD, Z. Figure it out. Hah.
She said, “Carl, next Saturday I'm having a reception at the house for a local playwright.”
“So.”
“I was wondering if you would be here for the reception.”
“Here.”
“When will you be going back for the hearing, I mean are you going straight from here to Washington or back to Detroit?”
“Detroit.”
“I'm going to be very busy next few days, final week of classes, final exams, reading papers, grades.”
“So.”
“So I won't be around the house much.”
“So.”
CHAPTER FOUR
April coming to an end, a Monday morning rain shower ended early. Seth had returned to the same location he had visited last October when he painted the country barn scene. He thought he's do a different perspective. Dressed in baggy white pants, gray sweatshirt, black flight boots, under brilliant natural light, he worked. The scene now shimmering in sparkling white and pink buds: the faded red barn, the fence in disrepair, the duck pond in the foreground, two ducks floating on the surface.
Absorbed in painting, as was his habit, he talked aloud: “I wonder if Rachelle has read my story. Probably not. Who cares, rot anyway. Perhaps Kaysee has read it. Are we whining? Wonderful. One last class scheduled before the end of the semester, probably giddy goodbyes and suck it up show-offs. I guess I'll go and then again maybe I won't. Wonderful.”
He mixed red and burnt umber for the barn color. “I don't want to live in this god forsaken rot. I'm thinking someplace warm, year round.”
He laid in some of the mixed red and umber on the barn's side. “You stayed too long at the dance, Seth-o, turned into a pumpkin. And why? This siren, vamp, diva. I see her in my dreams, smell her, hear her. She is smack between the eyes, always there … but it can never be. What was that Whittier drivel again, For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: It might have been?
“Nuts!”
He jammed some pure burnt umber to the canvas. “I'm not sure she's aware I even exist. The hell with it all, her too. We have one last class meeting. You said that. I might go, see what's going on. Those things are just a formality anyway. Hand the projects back, some final official sounding do-wacky something. Probably flunked, anyway. She probably didn't even read my story. So what, it's done, I'm finished with her, done, over, move on. Who are you kidding? It's all a lie. What I had imagined, what I thought might be, I'm embarrassed to think about it. That's it, she read my story and was embarrassed by it. Damn rot.”
He squeezed some white on his palate and mixed it with red and green to produce a slate gray for the barn's roof.
Applying the color, “When I took the project to her, she didn't even know who I was. Just another bump on a log. But then, why should she? I think I'm going to quit it all. Get out now, drop it. Whiner. Is one a whiner if one whines to ones' self?
“Doesn't matter does it, what one is basically doing is whining. Doesn't matter to whom one whines because it isn't for whom anyway. It's for the whiner.”
He squeezed some white directly onto the barn roof. “I gave it my best shot … but who need's it.”
He worked some cobalt blue into the sky.
After a time, pushing paint around with brush and fingers, the sun setting, he concluded to the countryside, “I'm beginning to realize that our ole friend Seth might not have the persistence to make it in the art life. It's like a sightless person dreaming of being a baseball umpire. To hell with it. I'll go get some more living under my skin, isn't that what they say, go learn from the fat lips of life, suck on her tongue for a while, lie with her, smell her in the morning.”
With a one inch brush he smeared the painting into nothing, and threw it on the ground,
“To hell with it all.”
Walking away from his equipment, he needed to see Jude.
CHAPTER FIVE
Entering Pudd’nheads, Seth saw Jude sitting at a table with a very tanned and, to Seth anyway, an older man. The man wore a navy blue blazer and white turtle neck pullover. Jude saw Seth and beckoned him to the table. The man stood. He was an inch taller than Seth, had neatly clipped black hair streaked with plenty of gray, a neatly trimmed beard with similar gray and his brown eyes exuded warmth.
Jude said, “Hi Seth, I'd like you to meet Impresario Roland Tacafondi.”
Roland said in broken English, “Signore, please to meet you.”
They shook hands.
Jude: “Roland is from Milan. He's a guest of the M.S.U. Music Department. He's the conductor of the Milan symphony.” She looked at Roland. “Seth is an artist, pretty good one at that.”
“Buono, meraviglioso!” Roland smiled and he and Seth sat.
Seth studied Jude. She was dressed in a white knit suit and her hair was pulled tightly back into a bun. She looked … mature.
This isn't Jude, Seth thought and said to Jude, “You not playing tonight?”
“On break.”
Roland looked at his watch, said, “But si, Jude my dear, I must a be depart, I have to a rehearsal.”
He stood and offered to shake hands with Seth. “Pleasure meeting you, signore.”
Seth shook hands and said, “Me too, ciao.”
Roland bent and kissed Jude on the cheek. “I see you later tonight, bella donna, si?”
She squeezed his arm. “Can't wait.”
“Ti amo.”
She said, “Me too.”
Roland nodded and left.
“Ciao,” Seth leaned back in his chair so the front legs were an inch off the floor, “What in the name of Mona Lisa is that all about?”
“I'm madly in love.”
He rocked forward. “Oh no you're not.”
“I am.”
“He's got to be fifty years old if he's a day!”
“Listen to you.”
“How long have you known Rudolph Valentino from Milano?”
“Two weeks.”
“And you're madly in love.”
“Yes.”
“Did he force feed you cocaine or what?”
&n
bsp; “Listen to you.”
“What are you going to do when he goes back to Italy, live on love emails?”
“I'm going with him.”
“Where?”
“To Italy.”
Blinking, “Are you insane!”
She smiled. “I'm going to marry him.”
“WHAT!” He stood.
“I'm going to marry him.”
“Oh no you're not.”
“Listen to you.”
“Are you nuts! He's ready for the bone yard.”
“Listen to you. And sit down.”
He sat and Jude explained: The Milan symphony orchestra was guest performing at Michigan State. She had met Roland the first night they rehearsed for a joint performance. He invited her out with his dinner party.
Seth said, “Did you pick up the check?”
“Seth.”
“What about your schooling, your degree?”
“Roland says he can get me in the Milan Conservatory of Music.”
“Bullshit.”
“SETH!”
“You can't go.”
“I can.”
“What did your parents say?”
“I haven't told them yet.”
“That settles it, you won't be moving to Italy.”
“Bet me.”
“What did this silver tongued Romeo promise you, a Ferrari?”
“He said the magic words.”
“What?”
“I can't tell you.”
“He's drugged you. He's a molester, a kidnapper, child porn king, I'm going to report this to the police”
“Listen to you, it's more like I kidnapped him.”
“Why was I not told about this sooner?”
“Listen to you.”
“He looks old enough to be your father.”
“You're repeating yourself.”
“He is.”
“He is only forty-five.”
“Only! How do you know?”
“He told me.”
“He TOLD you!”
“Listen to you.”
“You're not going to Milan.”
She shrugged and said, “So how is the apparition coming along?”
“It's not, was, wasn't an apparition at all, only a fictional joke in a sappy novel that nobody in their right mind would believe or maybe they would and that is why our fuzzy and warm little world is so much with us or without us or … matter of fact it's similar to this scene I'm in right now. A young violin player and a graying Italian stallion....”
“Seth!”
“...about to become a Nora Roberts' novel. Reality is no fun anymore, it's virtual rah rah, get your kicks on Route 666, dirt holes and sex du jour, sixty time six is for slobs. You have to slice a throat now and then, sleep with a witch, eat yesterday's pea soup with Damien's cousin, make goo goo with beasts.”
“Geez, that bad huh.”
“Worse.”
She looked at the paint on his hands, “So what have you been doing, painting?”
“I quit.”
“What?”
“I quit, left all my equipment in a farmer's field.”
“What?”
“I quit it all.”
“Oh no you don't, buddy boy, no.”
“I....”
“You go right this minute and get your equipment, now.”
“You're not going to Italy.”
“Bet me. Now go, this minute, and get that painting equipment. Now, or don’t ever speak to me again.”
She went to the stage picked up her violin and began playing “Arrivederci Roma”.
CHAPTER SIX
Last formal meeting of Com. 501, Seth arrived at the Olds Hall classroom five minutes past the scheduled start time of 2:00 P.M. The other students chattered about and Seth imagined they blabbed about what students blab about when yet another academic year is completed.
Blah blah blah.
But No Rachelle.
“Figures,” he muttered.
He sat in the seat he had sat in on the first class meeting. He looked at the window he had opened at Rachelle's request. He looked where she had written on the chalk board, the table she leaned on, stood behind, paced around.
A rustling, he tensed and Kay Jackson came into the room.
Seth bit his lower lip.
Kay spoke, “Dr. Zannes will not be here today. Some bug. She asked me to tell you that you may pick up your projects at her Bessey Hall office.”
Figures.
Kay: “That's it, see some of you next year.”
Student mumbling, grumbling, sighs, smirks, they stood, milled around. Kay, looking in Seth's direction, called over the din, “Seth.”
Seth, staring out the window, looked her way.
Pointing to her chest, she said, “Would you stop by and see me before you leave?” She looked over the buzzing students. “If there isn't anything else, any questions, have a good summer vacation. Grades will be posted next week, be in the mail same day.”
Seth waded through the students who were exiting the room. At the front of the room he said to Kay, “You wanted to see me?”
“Hi, Seth, remember me?”
“How could I forget?”
“You are such an asshole sometimes.”
“I know.”
She said, “We've been trying to get in touch with you, don't you have a phone?”
“No.”
She looked at him queerly, then said, “Z wants to talk to you.”
“Oh, what did I do, break some rule?”
Sigh, “It's about your project.”
“That bad huh?”
“Jesus Christ, she wants to see you.”
“About what?”
“I don't know.”
“I'm busy, I've got a ton of things to do. By the way, you probably read my stuff, what grade did you....”
“For Christ's sake, chill out will you. I don't give out grades and I didn't read your stuff. Probably not worth a whit anyway. You are such a cry baby.”
“I think the operative word these days is whiner,”
“You said it.”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When does Z want to see me?”
“I don't know, call her.”
“I thought she was sick.”
“She is, call her at home, she said she'd probably be in the office tomorrow.” She hesitated then whispered, “Between you and me, I think that asshole husband of hers is the sick one.”
“Not my problem.”
“Wanna go get a cup of coffee, I'll buy.”
“No.”
“Be that way, dip.” She started to leave.
“Hey?”
“What?”
“Got her home number handy?”
“You are such a dip.”
“I know.”
“313-224-4454.”
“Thanks, have a nice day.”
Seth mulled it, thought about it, kicked it. Maybe I should just wait and go to her office tomorrow. Tomorrow may never come. Original. Kaysee said call her. If you flunked the course, you'll be able to hear it in her voice. But she's sick … what did that comment about her husband mean? Call her.
He went to a pay phone and pressed Rachelle's number. Male voice answered: “Yah.”
“Is Dr. Zannes there?”
“Who's this?”
“Who's this?”
“Carl Bostich, her husband, who's this?”
Philip Marlowe, dick head. “I'm a student of hers, Seth Trudow. I was told she wanted to see me.”
“Just a minute.”
Grumbling, shuffling, after thirty seconds, Rachelle answered, “This is Dr. Zannes.”
She sounded tired. Seth said, “This is Seth Trudow, Com. 501, Ms. Jackson said you wanted to see me.”
“Oh yes, Seth, hi, I’ll be in my office tomorrow afternoon. Could you come in around 1:00? ”
“Is this something ominous?”
“Heavens no.”
“Okay, thank you. See you tomorrow.” Before he hung up, he heard Carl say, “Who was that jerk?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Carl golfing, just before noon Thursday, Rachelle dressed in tan slacks, a white blouse, and brown pumps. She pinned her hair behind her ears with gold Pisces barrettes and drove to her Bessey Hall office. Arrived just after 12:30, attending to some paper work, she heard a tapping at her open door. She looked up. Seth stood looking in.
She said, “Hi Seth, come in.”
Entering, Seth—hair trimmed, clean shaven, black Dockers, white polo shirt, flight boots—said, “Where's Ms. Kaysee?”
“She took the afternoon off. Please have a seat.”
He sat in one of the blue-covered chair facing the desk and first thing he noticed, Rachelle looked tired and her chin was red and bruised.
She smiled and held up his manuscript: “Seth, I read ‘Ben's Story’.”
“Did I flunk?”
“On the contrary.”
Her voice hypnotic, her face killing him, her words like a faraway siren in a distant night, he wasn't sure he heard her. He said, “Contrary?”
“I like it very much.”
Stopped, he studied her amber topaz eyes. Gems. Alive. Warm. Drawing him in.
You're killing me.
Rachelle, paused in the moment, imagined how wonderful it would be to be young with so much talent, so much promise.
She said, “Very sensual.”
“You think … I … was it too much?”
“Not at all.”
Seth sensed her reaching out, a smile that was more than a smile. He said, “What can I say, thank you.”
“Interesting character, Abigail Fuller,” she looked through him.
He didn't have to say it, she didn't either. She knew and he knew she knew.
His breath quickened.
“Interesting how you handled a story within a story.”
“Thank you.”
“Your hero, Matt James, is another interesting character, real.”
“Thank you.”
“Steamy relationship with Abigail.”
Pause, smile.
Some stirring thing moving around between them, she picked up his manuscript, stood and walked to the window: “Why the sad ending?”
He had followed her every graceful step and now, the afternoon sunlight highlighting her soft hair and the side of her face, stared at her.