Truths of the Heart

by G L Rockey

  She turned and held the manuscript to her breasts.

  Seth, mesmerized, fantasized being crushed there like the manuscript.

  She said, “Humm?”

  “What?”

  “Why the sad ending?”

  He leaned back, “It's all about endings, isn't it.”

  “How so?”

  “Life and then you die. It's all endings.”

  “It's not that bleak, is it?”

  “Isn't it? You're born without any say in the matter, go along, then realize that one day you will die and you wonder why go through all this messing around to get this and that, enjoy a little taste, a touch, knowing, always, in the back of your mind it's going to end, living the rot for what, to earn the gods' favor. Death is the only real friend we have. Life is nice but it will leave us. Death is always near and will be there in the end, forever.”

  “Where did all this fatalism come from?”

  “Is that what it is?”

  “I think.”

  “My sister was killed by a drunk driver.”

  Paused by the bluntness, she said softly, “I'm sorry.”

  “Endings, always endings. If all this is an accident, it seems silly to wonder through the heap like some sightless earth worm. Going on day to day to do what?” He put his right index finger to his temple and as he pulled an imaginary trigger, he said, “Then there is the smart one.”

  Strong thoughts of her father's suicide flushed through her. Her face saddened, she turned to the window.

  Way to go, Seth, you blew it. He stood and said, “I'm sorry if I said something....”

  She raised a hand, composed herself, turned, walked to her desk, sat and looked, it seemed, into him.

  He blushed. “I'm sorry if I said....”

  “No, nothing,” She leaned back, “Have you ever submitted to a publisher?”

  “Hadn't thought about it, really?”

  “Why don't you?”

  Stopped, “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  Seth studied her face. “You mean Ben’s Story?”

  “Yes.”

  “But how....”

  “I'll help you.” There was that smile again. “Speaking of which, I'm having a reception Saturday night for Simone Simone, she's a local playwright. Have you heard of her?”

  “Simone Simone?”

  “That's her pen name, just between we two, her real name is Mary Webster. She'll be reading some of her work, chatting, answering questions … some 501 classmates will be there, a few other faculty, very informal, would you like to come?”

  Are you kidding me? “What time?”

  “Sevenish.”

  “Oh, I have another engagement.”

  “Oh, too bad.”

  “But I think I can reschedule.”

  She smiled, “It's at my home, Lake Lansing, do you know the area?”

  “Yes, some.”

  “We're on the south east side of the lake, 5900 East Lake Drive.”

  “I'll find it.”

  “Dress is casual. I think you will enjoy meeting Simone, she is a good person to know, a little eccentric, but she's a treasure.”

  Rachelle stood and extended her hand. “We'll see you Saturday night, then.”

  Standing, Seth took her hand. Her palm warm and soft, a tingling sensation ran up his arm. He looked into her eyes. A little squeeze.

  Damn.

  She released.

  He said, “I was wondering....”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing.”

  Seth wanted to stay, but he didn't know what to do.

  “Keep writing, Seth. Okay?” She smiled.

  Say something, anything. “Thank you again.” Good, really good. “Thank you, Dr. Zannes.” He reached to shake her hand again.

  She took it. He couldn't breathe.

  She released, “See you Saturday night, casual.”

  “I was wondering….”

  “Yes?”

  “I have this portrait class … and I was wondering....” He couldn't get it out.

  “Yes?”

  “I wondered if you would pose for a portrait.”

  She tilted her head. “I'll have to think about that one but, right off, I would have to say no.”

  “Why?”

  “I don't think so, Seth. There are a million portraits you could paint, what about one of your friend, the daughter of who was it, Cochise. Or the other one I crossed paths with at the hospital, the F word lady.”

  You remember all that. God, I love you. “Think about it, please.”

  “See you Saturday.”

  He left.

  Rachelle walked to the window and looked out. The campus coming alive in spring greens, she realized her mind shouldn't be where it was.

  That is insane. True but insane.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After leaving Rachelle's office, on cloud nine, ten, eleven, and twelve, Seth went to his apartment. This was all too, too much. The overwhelming thought in his mind was not the kind words and encouragements about his writing, though that was enough to blow his mind, it was the thought of being in the same room with Rachelle, alone, breathing the same air, smelling her, touching her, feeling the vibrations bouncing off the walls.

  She must have felt it too, she had to. I can't stand it. How can this be because I think of nothing else and how did this happen? The covering of warmth I felt when I held her hand, soft like velvet … and she squeezed. How wonderful she smelled. Is this what a honeybee feels in a flower's fragrance? And how she looked into me, her eyes, amber topaz gems, pools of compassion like she could read my mind. I could have looked at her looking into me, stayed there forever. I can think of nothing else. But it's insane, it can never be, can never be. God the agony.

  Steeped in the glorious misery of it all, he was thankful he had listened to Jude, retrieved his painting equipment, where now he sought relief. He took the first sketch he had done of Rachelle in class and with swift broad strokes, he began a portrait of her. He did two more until, exhausted, hungry, the afternoon gone, he took a bus to East Lansing and walked to Pudd’nheads.

  Entering, he heard Jude playing some Italian sounding love song. He tossed a dollar in her violin case and looked at her blankly, lost.

  She frowned.

  He sat at the bar and ordered a ginger beer and thought he should eat something but he how could he eat. He could think of nothing but Rachelle.

  Finished playing, Jude joined him. She said, “You start using drugs, or what?”

  “Why?”

  “You look out of it.”

  “You'll never believe it.”

  “What?”

  “She likes my stuff.”

  “Who she?”

  “Rachelle.”

  “I should have known.”

  “She wants to send my story to a publisher.”

  “You sure she doesn't want to rob the cradle?”

  He looked at her, “I wish.”

  “Did you get your painting equipment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “What have you been up to?”

  “Getting my things together, leaving for Milan.”

  He looked at her, “I thought we went over this once.”

  “Over what?”

  “You running off on some whim.”

  “It's not a whim.”

  “Where is that silver tongued cradle robber from Milan staying, I want to talk to him.”

  “It's okay for you but not okay for me?”

  “Whataya mean?”

  “Your apparition.”

  “That's different.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He's gone back to Italy”

  “Just like that and you're going to join him, do you have a passport?”

  “I'm getting one. I'm going to become a cittadino Italiano, signore. Italian citizen, we're getting married.”

  “WHAT?”
>
  “We're getting married, in Italy!”

  “No you are not.”

  “Oh yes I am.”

  “I forbid it.”

  “Hah.”

  “Does this mean I have to start eating pizza?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rachelle finished some stray paper work and drove home. A phone message from Carl, he would be late, drinks and dinner with the golf guys.

  She fed T.S. and found that her mind was still where it shouldn't be. Seth. She took a dip in the pool, read, wrote, went down to the Percy Bysshe Shelley. Sitting on the stern with T.S., she looked at the water. Looked at the shoreline. Looked at the setting sun. Dangled her toes in the water and looked at the circles expanding outward.

  The last light of day nearly gone, T.S. following, she went inside, poured a glass of white merlot, ate a salad, showered, and put on her shorty silk pajamas. She went to the sofa in the bedroom sitting room, curled her feet under her hips, took up her journal and wrote:

  This is insane. Write insane twenty times, then go stand in the corner. Put a dunce hat on, big pointed one, white, make that black, begin now: Insane insane insane insane insane … you are forty, he looks twenty … insane, insane, insane … drop it right now … when you are fifty he'll be what, never was good with left brain logic. In the learned word of the learned professor, SHIT!

  Just then she heard the garage door opening.

  Dashing downstairs, a hideous migraine in the making, she sat on the sofa, snapped on a light, and opened a book.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Saturday evening arrived and Seth, anxious about going to the party at Rachelle's home, stripped, got into his shower, pulled the plastic curtain, shampooed, lathered, shaved, hummed some tune—“If I Only Had the Nerve”, and “High Hopes”—a mix even he couldn't recognize.

  Finishing, he turned off the shower, pulled the plastic curtain back, and froze.

  Laura stared at him

  Water dripping from his hair, he said, “What in the … how long...?”

  She held a towel out, “Let me dry you.”

  “NO!” He grabbed the towel. “What are you doing here?”

  She reached to touch him.

  “No!”

  She turned and left the steam filled bathroom.

  He dried himself, wrapped the towel around his middle and went into the kitchen. He looked around. No Laura. He called, “Laura.” No answer. He went to the bedroom.

  She lay nude, on her stomach, in the middle of the bed.

  Seth, stepping into white boxer shorts, “Laura, you can't stay here, I have to go out.”

  She rolled over and parted her legs.

  Ignoring her, he went to the closet. “You're wasting your time.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have an art show.”

  “I'll go with you.”

  “Not.”

  She rolled on her stomach and began sobbing.

  He said, “Sob all you want,” and went on dressing. After pulling on black socks and tan Dockers, he selected a white short sleeve shirt. Tucking the tails into his Dockers he said, “Laura, I have to go, you have to leave.”

  Voice through a pillow, “I'll wait.”

  Slipping on black loafers, he looked down at her, “Laura … it's over. Get used to it.”

  “Take my car.”

  “No. I'll expect you g-o-n-e, gone when I get back.”

  He left.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Seth was familiar with Lake Lansing. A few miles northeast of the Michigan State Campus, the mile or so wide lake surrounded by a smorgasbord of cottages, cabins, and homes offered interesting subjects to paint.

  Seth took a bus and made his way to East Lake Drive. After a half mile hike, he spotted a two-story chalet constructed of cedar logs. The house sat on an end lot twenty or so feet back from the lake and, he noted, was adjacent to wooded land.

  The number on the mailbox 5900, he went to the front door, pushed the button and chimes inside played the theme from CATS. In a moment the door opened and there she stood.

  Rachelle, radiant in loose fitting white satiny slacks, matching blouse, honey hair falling around her face to her shoulders, lips bare, amber topaz eyes glowing, buoyant smile. She said, “Seth, how nice, glad you could make it.”

  Amazing. “Me too.” He glanced down and saw her elegant unpainted toe nails peeking through the straps of stylish clear plastic sandals.

  He looked back to her face and her knockout fragrance—fresh cut citrus, some cinnamon in there, roses in light spring rain—dizzying, he could hardly keep his balance.

  She extended her right hand. “Come in.”

  A few steps inside, T.S. appeared and looked up at Seth.

  Rachelle said, “This is T.S. Eliot, the picture in my office.”

  “Hello T.S.”

  T.S. rubbed past his legs, curling his tail around one ankle as he went.

  “Oh, wow, he approves,” said Rachelle

  T.S. marked Seth's shoes with his nose, cheeks and whiskers.

  “T.S. stop that flagrant exhibition,” Rachelle said.

  T.S. put his nose in the air and walked away like he knew something was up.

  Just then another couple arrived and Rachelle said to Seth, “Just a sec,” and stepped past him to greet them.

  Seth looked around. The great room was abuzz with people chatting, sipping, munching. In the background, recorded classical music from a string quartet. Glass sliding doors were open to the deck. A few people stood outside. Seth recognized four Com. 501 students. He noted that, inside, several people hung on the words of a woman whose skin was the color of parchment paper. The woman had long straight black hair that hung around her round face. He also noticed bags under her eyes about the size of walnuts. She had thick black eyebrows, large ears and wore no discernible makeup. As she talked, she pushed her hair back over her forehead with her right hand like it was a pet trying to get her attention. Around five feet six, her weight was hard to compute because she wore a flapping-loose black sack dress that stopped just short of her velvet slippers which were also black. She puffed on a non-filter cigarette.

  Got to be Simone Simone, Seth thought, then scanned, off to one side, a table of appetizers—shrimp, crackers, tiny sandwiches, cheese cuts.

  It was then that he saw him. A bruiser male stood behind a block-glass bar. Seth had a feeling, the way bruiser was eyeing him, that he might be hungry. Seth too had a hunch who he might be—Carl Bostich.

  “Okay, come on.” Dr. Zannes took Seth by the hand and moved toward Simone. As they got to the author, Seth noticed hairs growing from the tip of her blocky nose. He also caught a muskiness that seemed to come from beneath Ms. Simone's dress. He saw that her cigarette brand was Chesterfield regular.

  Tapping Simone’s arm, Rachelle introduced Seth as the student she had mentioned earlier.

  Simone said, “Ah hah, the gifted one.”

  The little group around Simone applauded lightly. Seth hadn't expected this and gave Rachelle a sideways glance.

  Rachelle winked at Simone and said to Seth, “We'll be getting words of wisdom from Simone a little later on, come, excuse us.” Rachelle led him to another area of the great room where three women and a thin male talked in front of the red, black, and white abstract oil painting that, a gift to Carl from a fan, he had insisted be hung.

  Rachelle was about to introduce Seth to the group when the CATS' door chimes sounded. She said to the group, “This is Seth, please introduce yourselves, excuse me.”

  She left and Seth was alone with the group who basically ignored him as they chatted about the hidden meaning in the red, black, and white abstract painting.

  A younger female imbued meaning into the many shades of green and the angle of the red line crossing the center of the picture. It seems the green stood for life and the red symbolized mankind destroying the environment.

  Seth said, “Might have been the artist just had some paint left ov
er from another painting.”

  To astonished stares, Seth slipped away to the outside deck and leaned on the rail. Below, skirting the concrete apron around the pool, ten flaming torches licked flame into the warm evening.

  He looked out to Lake Lansing. Tiny lights across the water played over the rippled surface and, what else, he was reminded of van Gogh's night scenes.

  Rachelle appeared, “There you are. Come, do you want something to drink, eat?”

  “Nothing to eat, thank you.”

  “Something to drink then.” She took his arm, led him inside, and they went to the bar. “Seth, this is my husband, Carl.”

  Seth thought the inflection in her introduction was like yesterday's newspaper and yep, Seth had been right. This was the slab of meat whom earlier he had noticed eyeing him.

  Carl lit a Kool King and blew smoke into the air.

  Rachelle said, “Carl, this is Seth Trudow, a student of mine.”

  Carl extended his bear paw right hand. They shook.

  Seth perceived Carl's cologne to be a subtle mix of camphor oil and menthol. And he's breaking my hand. He released his grip and so did Carl.

  Just then the doorbell chimed. Rachelle said, “Excuse me, you two talk.”

  Rachelle gone, a skinny male guest came to the bar and ordered bourbon/water and a gin and tonic.

  While Carl mixed, Seth quickly inventoried Carl's white silk shirt that was unbuttoned to mid-chest and revealed, nestled in modest chest hair, a gold medallion dangling from a thick gold chain.

  Seth wondered if he might show a nipple soon.

  Carl working on the drink order, Seth continued his inventory of him: about the size of a doorway, Carl's hands seemed nervous like he had just killed something and kicked it under the carpet. A Notre Dame ring looked like it grew out the third finger on his right hand.

  Another drink order placed, glass of Chablis from a plump female, Seth's attention went to the football trophies, plaques, and pictures of Carl displayed around the bar setting. While he surveyed the memorabilia, he noticed Carl, getting a wine glass, pause to check his hair in the mirror behind the bar.