by G L Rockey
“But?”
“Funds are running low, I could get a job, da Vinci's is opening a Chicago branch … you teaching this summer?”
“Possibly one class, I need to take some time off, maybe do some research.”
“Going to offer Com. 501 next year?”
“I think so.”
“Maybe I'll stay, repeat your class.”
She heard but didn't want to think about the underlying meaning: “I think you should do a one page synopsis for Ben's Story. We'll have to get, or you will have to retype a few things, I've edited some minor revisions, shouldn't take long.”
“You think this is going to work, don't you?”
“Sure, why not.”
“Okay with me. Say....” He hesitated.
“What?”
“I have a request.”
“What?”
“You turned me down once.”
She thought a moment, “I think I know what it is.”
“I have to do a study for anatomy class….”
She tipped her head, paused, thought, smiled, “I'm flattered. But, like I said before, I don't think so.”
“Why?”
“Think about it.”
“I have.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“A blue nude.”
She stopped walking and, a step ahead, turned back to him and stared.
He said, “No, no, just kidding, we could do a head and shoulder portrait.”
“That would be nice.”
They continued to walk.
“Is that a yes?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Why?”
“Let me think about it.”
“What's to think?”
“And the Walrus said....”
“Yes.”
“Seth, no.”
“There is a yes in your mien.”
“Where would you do it?”
“My studio, my apartment, you know, above....”
“Tony's Deli where I may buy some olives.”
“You remember.”
She chuckled and retreated, “Seth, you know the drill, I'm the professor … how would this look?”
“Like what it is.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You're the professor, you tell me.”
“When would you do this?”
“How about tonight.”
She gave him a hooded glance.
“No, tomorrow afternoon, we could start, say, nineish.”
“Seth, I don't think this is such a good idea”
“I won't compromise any student professor relationship, promise.”
She laughed. “There are a million other subjects on this campus, why don't you get one of your fellow students?”
“You said that before.”
“But there are and besides, I don't think I would have time.”
“Listen to the professor equivocate.”
“Okay then, no.”
“Okay.”
“What would I wear?”
“Nothing.”
She rolled her eyes.
“That outfit you had on Saturday night, at the Simone thing, the loose fitting white satiny slacks, matching blouse, honey hair falling around your shoulders, lips bare, beyond that, is up to you.”
She looked at him. He remembered every detail. Why are you surprised?
She then recalled what Carl had said at the party about Seth, drinking ginger ale, Shirley Temples, but it was none of her business. But then, if he was … she had to know. No.
He said, “I'll meet you at the Capital Coffee Shop, on Michigan Avenue, you know where that is?”
“Yes.”
“Say 9:00 A.M., tomorrow for coffee, my place is only a block away.”
“I can't possibly do it tomorrow.”
“When?”
She thought about it, mulled, then: “How about Thursday? I'll have some time then.”
“Carl out of town?”
Paused: “That is not appropriate and perhaps we should cancel before we start.”
“I'm sorry.”
After a moment, “I think it would be better if we skipped coffee, I'll just come straight to your studio.”
“Fine with me, you know the way, corner of E. Michigan Avenue, Allen Street.”
“I remember.”
“You go east on Michigan Avenue, to Allen Street, on the left....”
“I said I remember?”
“...park on the Allen Street, Tony's deli is on the first floor, gourmet foods, side entrance, up one flight of stairs, end of hall.”
“Smarty.”
“Anybody asks, you're shopping for olives.”
“You're bad.”
****
Returning to her office, her phone ringing, they entered and she picked up. Seth watched her face change to paste.
She said into the phone, “Just a minute.” She covered the mouth piece and whispered to Seth, “This is going to take a minute.”
He whispered back, “See you Thursday, 9:00 A.M. my place.”
She shook her head and mouthed, “Make it eleven.”
He nodded and left.
She said into the phone, “I don't think I want to talk to you.”
She listened as Carl apologized for the bloody nose, was sorry, didn't mean it, everything was piling up, if she would move to Detroit none of this would be happening.
Listening, she stared at the doorway through which Seth had just gone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
That night, home, Rachelle in a quandary, thinking, quandary dawndary, I can't handle this mode. Mode! What is this, ice cream? T.S. snuggled up by her side, she took up her journal and wrote:
This is so stupid, I don't have time for this. I have work to do, things to research, articles to write, a life to get on with … without Carl that's for sure … that will be dealt with soon, but this jumping out of the pot into the fire … this is insane … who are you kidding? It is there—a caring I have never known for another male except … say it, yes, your father. Maybe that's it, Herr Freud.
She blushed then continued to write:
You blush, wow! I can't stand it, I have never had less control of my thinking. I can't concentrate. I eat and Seth is there. I read and he is there. I drive … insane insane insane! I feel like a pot of water coming to a boil. When you are sixty, he will be in his prime … his prime, interesting choice of word. How 'bout, when you are dry as wheat germ … with him I would never be dry … STOP THAT!
She put her journal down and said to T.S., “We don't need this alphabet soup, do we? How did this happen? And what do I care if someone drinks ginger ale!”
T.S. yawned widely, closed his eyes.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Thursday morning arrived and, determined to put a stop to this nonsense, wearing Levis, her white Adidas running shoes, green M.S.U. baseball hat with pony tail pulled through the hole in the back, large Bimini sun glasses, Rachelle parked a block away and walked to the side entrance to Seth's apartment. Cell phone turned off, she made her way up the staircase. At the top, noting the time, 11:10 A.M., she saw, down a short hallway, a tall redhead woman coming from the only door at the end of the hall. She thought she recognized the person. Yes, at Sparrow Hospital. The F-word lady. Passing her, the woman gazed beyond
Rachelle like neither person existed.
Rachelle reached the apartment door, paused, then tapped. The door opened, Seth smiled. He wore Levis, a white T-shirt, and was bare foot. He looked at her disguise, then said, “I'm sorry you must have the wrong address.”
“You....” She pushed him aside and entered quickly.
“Dr. Zannes! You look….”
”Can it. Please close the door.”
He did.
She looked at him wryly, “Should I have taken a number?”
He detected a hint of jealousy, “What?”
&nb
sp; “Who was that I passed in the hall?”
“Art student, having problem with a class.”
Biting wryly, “What is she majoring in, ancient art history?”
“Rachelle, this is not like you.”
“None of this is like me.”
“Oh.”
“Didn't I see her at your hospital bedside, the one who threw the F word my way?”
“I was so out of it. I don't remember much of that whole episode.”
Taking her sun glasses off, “Do you remember anything of the hospital experience?”
“You came.”
“So I did and I can't believe I'm here.”
“If you want to know, she is a photographer, sculptor on the side, somehow she has grown attached but I have no interest there, have told her so.”
“Past, present, future, it's none of my concern, now is it.”
He smiled “You look like a countess in disguise.”
She looked at his cut off Levis, his bare feet. “And who are you, Picasso?” She smiled, “How did you get me to do this?”
“All my wealth.”
She removed her baseball hat and surveyed the apartment.
Surprised to see the many sketches of herself pinned to the wall, everywhere, she looked at him.
He shrugged and said, “Would you like something to drink, coffee, tea, milk, I have some wine … ginger ale?”
“Coffee.” She had to know, had to ask, “You drink a lot of ginger ale?”
Paused, he said, “Why do you ask?”
“I noticed at the Simone Simone party....”
“Carl.”
“No, I just....”
“My sister, Natalie … I haven't touched a drop since.”
She felt small, “I....”
Pointing to a mug of coffee, “Black?”
Disarmed, angry at herself, “Little milk.” Sitting at his desk, “By the way, I talked to Simone, the letter is on the way.”
“You said … won't that be something?”
“This is all something.”
Handing her the mug of coffee, Seth said, “Shall we get to work.”
She said, “How are we going to do this?”
“How 'bout my bed, you could....”
“Goodbye,” she started to stand.
“Just kidding. I've been thinking about it, a peasant woman, babushka, I bought one.”
“You're kidding.”
“No.”
“Is that what I bring to mind?”
“Servant qualities do come through. Also nobility, charity, giving, honor, touch of pity, compassion, sacrifice.”
She yawned.
“Proud, touch of the rebel....”
“Okay, okay. Where is the babushka?”
He produced a maroon and gold babushka. She took it and draped it casually over her head and shoulder. “How's that?”
“The ponytail has to go.”
“How?”
“Like Saturday night, let your hair fall around your face to your shoulders.”
She threw him a glance both menacing and adoring.
He said, “I remember everything.”
“I noticed.” She removed the babushka and lets her hair fall loose.
He said, “May I?”
“What?”
“The babushka.”
“Might as well.”
He adjusted her hair so it fell casually around her face then adjusted the babushka and tied it loosely under her chin. Her breath's sweetness mixed up with freshness from her hair and that exotic roses-in-the-rain perfume, made him swoon. He touched her hair again. She said, “You've done this before?”
“Zillions … there, perfect.” He moved to his easel where an 18x24inch white canvas was sized and secured. He stood studying her for several minutes then, with a stick of blue pastel, began to sketch an outline of her head, neck, and shoulders.
She said, “How long do you think this will require?”
“I'd prefer you not talk.”
She raised an eyebrow.
Absorbed in his work, his arm muscles flexing like taut coils, getting the shape of the head, proportion of the eyes, nose, lips just right, an hour seemed like five minutes.
Her attention, more than once went to his face. Exchanging eye contact, she caught herself wanting to touch him. She stiffened, said, “I should be getting back soon.”
“Another half hour.” He paused. “Did you want to take a break?”
“How much longer?”
“Hard to tell.”
“May I see?”
“No, not yet.”
“I'll take that break.”
“Five minutes.”
“Thank you.”
****
After the break, another hour passed as Seth, with a one-inch brush, worked flesh tones into the portrait.
Rachelle said, “I have to be leaving pretty soon.”
He was absorbed and didn't answer.
“Hello.”
She glanced at her wristwatch, 4:00. She stood. “I really have to be going.”
He stopped. “What are you doing?”
“I have to be going?”
“But I need more time.”
“When?”
“You tell me.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“You name it.”
“Afternoon.”
“Two.”
“Okay, but I have to tell you, that's it.”
“Just a few hours.”
“What's a few?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Two.”
“Okay.”
As she stepped outside, she noticed someone seemed to be studying the M.S.U. Faculty Sticker affixed to her Saab's windshield. Yes, that woman who had passed her in the hallway, from the hospital, redhead, the photographer. She stepped back inside the stairwell, waited then peeked out. The woman walked to a black sports car parked behind Rachelle's Saab and pulled away. Rachelle went to her car and heading west toward Lake Lansing she noticed the black sports car, two cars back, following her.
Approaching a traffic light that had turned yellow, Rachelle slowed and, just as the light changed red, sped through it. She glanced in the rear view mirror. The black sports car, boxed in, had to stop. Rachelle breathed a sigh of relief and, taking a different route, arrived at her Lake Lansing home. She pulled inside the garage, and pressed the remote that closed the door.
The door clamoring shut, she sat thinking about the redhead, then dismissed it all as paranoid. Why would she follow me? She was probably going to East Lansing, too. But I was with Seth nearly five hours. She was waiting. Maybe you should get it straight from the silver tonged artist's mouth.
Inside the house, T.S. was in hiding. “Thomas Stearns, where are you?” She checked the answering machine. Three messages from Carl: “Rachelle. You there? Pick up.”
BEEP.
“Rachelle, if you're there pick up. Rachelle. Hello. Call me.” A hushed, “Fuck.”
BEEP.
“Rachelle, hello, I tried to call the office, your cell....”
BEEP.
She hit the erase button.
The phone rang. She looked at it, call ID Carl, the recorded message kicked in, finished, and she figured, pick up or it will go on all night. “Hello.”
“Where ya been?”
She crossed her fingers and explained she had been on campus, meetings, library research.
After a pause he said, “Bad news, I'm going to be tied up over the weekend, dickheads at WJJ have more concerns about PR, all that crap. Have a meeting with lawyers Saturday morning, why doncha come over to Detroit this weekend.”
Are you for real. “I don't think so.”
“You better get your ass over here pretty soon, start looking for a house, deal's a deal, remember.”
Doesn't get it. “The way things are going maybe we should stay put for the time being.”
“I told you it's all bullshit, this will be over by the Fourth of July.”
Doesn’t get it, never will. “You still going to D.C. next week for hearings?”
“Yeah.” Pause: “Why you ask?”
“Just wondered.”
“Got something planned?”
“Yes, the Spartan Athletic Department is coming over for a swim in the pool.”
“Hah hah hah, wouldn't doubt it.”
“Anything else? I have to go.”
“Fuck you.”
“You too.”
She hung up, turned the answering machine off, and stuffed her cell phone in a kitchen drawer.
The kitchen phone began to ring.
Ignoring it, she started upstairs and T.S. appeared at the top. “There you are.”
Arrived at the second floor landing, T.S. sniffed her like he recognize where she had been, looked at her slyly, then turned and walked into the bedroom.
“Be that way.”
She changed into silk pink pajamas, went to the sitting room, took up her journal, and wrote:
Reality check. What are you doing? Do you have any idea what you did this afternoon? You dressed in a disguise, went to a student's apartment and stayed there for the better part of five hours. It's insane. And what was that black sports car scene out of James Bond all about. Who is that woman? What is the matter with you? Can't you see what is happening? You are about to become another conquest for a young gigolo. He has them coming in and out of his place like Saturday night at the bordello. That redhead is probably one of thousands. Then there's the Indian Princess, he might go to jail for statutory rape on that one.
She recalled T.S. Eliot's 'Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' and recited the line: “In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo.”
She wrote: Get out of this now. You could lose your job, not to mention your life, as in killed by you know who … speaking of which, how are you going to get out this so called marriage…? Hah. Meantime, I will put Mr. Trudow out of my mind, not show up tomorrow, maybe I should try to embarrass him … criticize his art … Listen to you, that is so unprofessional, unlike you, unkind, why do you want to punish him … is the feeling for him that strong? Maddening … or perhaps Dear Z, you are trying to punish yourself....
She recalled more of Prufrock, “‘…time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions … do I dare disturb the universe? Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?’”