by G L Rockey
Then another ill set in on top of what-started-it-all: she might not show up Monday night.
That thought melted into endings: Why now, her, this way? What is this? I think they call it tragedy or melodrama or who knows, who cares. How about sappy. Sappy, yes, knowing you, sappy. You know Seth-o, nothing is ever really imprinted on you unless the ending comes up botched. Where did that obscene pessimism come from?
He couldn't answer. He only knew it was the way with him. He felt less fear when he felt sorrow. Happiness produced anxiety. Anxiety that the happiness would end.
Darkness and melancholy hold less fear of loss. Are you sick or what? I don't know but a gnawing doubt consumes me. Every second I am out of her warmth I ache. I can think only of her. When I'm with her, I'm anxious thinking of having to leave her. Then there is this nagging in it all. Nag, nag, nag. Sick, Seth-o, plain and simple. Sick.
He thought of Carl.
If he finds out, not for me but her, I fear the worse. From what I saw at the Simone Simone affair, Carl is a loose cannon. Have to take her away. Have to convince her. Anywhere, New Zealand, she said she had taught there once.
Reclining on his soda, he said loudly, “Well, relax, Seth-o. If she doesn't show up at her Rodin spot you won't have to worry about any of this, now will you.”
Damn!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
For Rachelle, Sunday night brought scant sleep in and out of dreams, and Monday morning finally came. Somewhere in the night, T.S. had given up on her, went downstairs to sleep.
Up early, she did her calisthenics, went to the kitchen and was greeted by a nasty look from T.S.
“And a good morning to you too.”
He turned, went directly to his food bowl, and sat with his back to her. “Okay, okay,” she opened a can of Fancy Feast shrimp puree and scooped it in his dish. “You are such a snot.”
As he ate, she listened again to the strange laugh-messages that were recorded on her machine last night.
She erased all the messages and retrieved the Lansing State Journal from the front porch.
Sitting at the kitchen table, sipping English Toffee cappuccino, T.S. eating, after reading the cartoons, she went to the front page and read:
NFL TIES TO GAMBLING
Monday, May 13, AP
The investigation into NFL ties to gambling is widening. It has been learned that the Justice Department intends to indict several officials in football game spread shenanigans. In an FBI recording, one official, who is not identified, is heard discussing a Green Bay vs. Vikings game in which the gambling interests wanted the point spread fixed at three. Detroit Lions’ sports announcer and former Lions quarterback Carl Bostich is on the witness list.
She dropped the newspaper to the table. “Well, Mr. Eliot, this will play just terrifically on the M.S.U. campus. Not to mention a forty year old professor playing around with a student young enough to be her son.”
Like a large cloud blocking the sun, reality set in and she was frustrated at the disruptions in her life, distractions in her intellectual pursuits.
“Never in a million years would I have thought I could have been mixed up in anything like this.”
T.S. Eliot licked his chops and went back to eating.
“Enjoy your breakfast?”
Just then the front door chimed the theme from CATS.
Rachelle looked at T.S., “Who could that be? Seth?
She went to the door and opened it.
A woman, black rain coat hanging loosely from her shoulders, red hair ratted around a hateful gaze, that F-word lady friend of Seth's, stared at her.
Rachelle said, “May I help you.”
“I'm Laura Toth, we need to talk.”
“I beg your pardon.”
Laura pushed past her into the house.
Rachelle closed the door and followed her to the great room.
T.S.'s tail fluffed twice its size, his ear erect, his eyes wide orbs, he bolted upstairs.
Laura turned to face Rachelle. “So you're the famous Dr. Zannes.”
“I don't know about famous.”
“You know me.”
“Photographer perhaps?”
“Hah, you know. What did he tell you?”
“I don't have the faintest idea of what you are babbling about.”
“Hah. I just think you should know about persona Seth Trudow.”
“Oh?”
“I know what's going on.”
“Nothing is going on.”
“Hah, just be warned, he's a wicked person, uses women, he promised to marry me, used me, fucked me every which way from Monday, then he threw me aside, like a dirty rag. He's evil I tell you, and he'll do the same to you.”
“I think you better leave.”
“Hah, has he asked you to model for him?”
A blank stare from Rachelle.
“He has … you have haven't you? Did he start with a portrait? Hah, wait till he gets your tits hanging out, your cunt hairs frosted.”
“You are going to have to leave this instant or I'm going to call the police.”
“Hah.”
Rachelle went to the door and opened it. “Now.”
“Roskin ross, rose in rot.” Laura swept past her and spit on the door step.
The encounter steeled in her mind, for Rachelle the rest of the day plowed through that famous hole in time like carnival bumper cars out of control. She couldn't believe what Laura had said of Seth. She knew his soft warmth, compassion, his touch, his lips … never.
Despite the craziness of everything, all she knew for certain, she wanted him. She decided, she would ask him tonight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Monday evening, a half moon cast hoary light across Lake Lansing. Rachelle showered for half an hour, shaved her legs, shampooed her hair and dried herself with a fluffy white towel. She then blow-dried her hair free, full, and loose. Finished, she inserted a fresh cervical cap, powdered, perfumed and began to dress by pulling on pink panties. Picking up a bra, she paused. She put the bra down and removed the panties. She dressed in navy-blue walking shorts with an elastic top, sleeveless white blouse, and slipped on weave fashion sandals. Before she departed, she checked to be sure the answering machine was on and left her cell phone on the kitchen counter.
T.S. eyeing her like he knew exactly what was going on, she poured him a bowl of milk. He walked away. She said to him, “No matter what, you are still number one in my heart.”
Amazed at how calm she felt, this was right, she went to her car, backed out of the garage and pressed the remote that closed the door. Scant traffic on the streets at 11:30 P.M., the evening warm and still, the half moon hanging overhead, the stars bright, she drove to the M.S.U. campus.
What if he doesn't show up? He will.
She parked in a visitor's lot not far from the Red Cedar. She checked the time, 12:02, and began a leisurely walk to her Rodin Spot.
The night unseasonably warm, the moon a slice of gold in star pricked purple, hands in her front pockets, she thought, I knew I'd be here even last Friday when I left his apartment.
She saw him sitting on the grass near the water at her Rodin spot. A light colored short sleeve shirt and white Bermuda shorts reflected the moonlight.
She sat beside him.
Staring into the rippling water, he said, “I knew you'd be late.”
“You are bad.”
He looked up at the sky, “I think the first night must have been like this.”
She said, “Guess who visited me this afternoon?”
He looked at her.
“Laura.”
“You're kidding me. What did she want?”
Studying his face, she didn't want to talk about Laura. She wanted to touch him. She did. His lips with her fingertips. She had been over this a million ways, counted every moment from which way and the fact that she was here said volumes. He touched her hand. Numbness went through her.
He said, “What did she....”
Touching his lips more firmly, “Seth, fill me, please.”
He took her face in his hands and kissed her.
Gliding effortlessly, slipping, floating, slowing, sinking, round circles enlarging, her arms hung loosely to the ground, weak, she whispered, “Oh dear Seth, I love you.”
His lips brushed over her cheeks, touched her nose, lips. He found her hungry, open and sweet. She molded her arms around him, pulled him to her, lay back on the grass.
Seth moved his hands beneath her blouse and touched her breasts. She pulled her blouse up. He kissed gently. She reached and with a firm hand brought him out. He pushed his hand beneath the elastic of her shorts.
She sat up, whispered. “Not here, come with me.” She took him by the hand, led him to a nearby wooded area, a secluded nook, took her blouse off, spread it on the soft floor of grass, sat on it, arms outstretched to him.
Seth knelt at her side and she laid back. He pulled her shorts off and began kissing her thighs.
Wanting him to think she had never been kissed there before like that, and she hadn't quite like this, his soft lips were too much, “Seth, don't.”
Her back arched telling him to continue, he did. Soft whispers more frequent, she began pulsing, tugged at his hair gently. “Seth, come here.” She pulled his face to hers and kissed him. More than she could stand, she pulled at his shorts.
He stood, undressed quickly, over her, they swayed, in control, out of control, controlled … a furious collision then peace.
After a time, spent, she whispered, “This is insane, totally insane.”
Desire again welled up in her. But again concerned what he might think, she started to move but he pulled her back and they again engulfed each other.
After a time, she whispered, “This is insane, totally insane.” Desire again welled up, and they engulfed each other.
****
Spent, lying beside her, he put his arm around her. She laid her head on his chest and had her way with him.
Then she straddled him and looked down at him. “You realize we are in deep trouble, don't you.”
He smiled.
More time passed and as they lay quietly, Rachelle knew she had not only found her triple threat, she had captured him. Then she whispered, “So tell me about Laura.”
“You tell me.”
She told him what Laura had said.
“She’s insane, I never….”
She touched his lips, “I believe you.”
“Where’s Carl?”
“Washington … D.C.”
Seth: “We going to sleep here tonight?”
“What’s that line, my place or yours.”
“Mine.”
“You sure another ‘friend’ isn’t there?”
“We could do Motel 8.”
“Your place, I’ll drive unless you wanted to take a bus.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Tuesday's sunrise casting a pink glow over everything, Rachelle left Seth's apartment. Driving to Lake Lansing, her Saab seemed to float over the pavement and, as she passed a billboard advertising a local bank's Great Escape promotion, she had a thought.
Home, entering the kitchen, T.S. meowed loudly, smelled her, rubbed her legs. She picked him up. He looked at her with wide eyes.
“Were you lonely?” She put him down and checked the kitchen telephone.
The machine blinked with seven messages, ID showed all from Area Code 202.
Has to be Washington D.C.. She erased them all without listening.
After she fed T.S., she took a hot shower, put on a swimsuit and made a cup of almond cappuccino. Reading the paper, the phone rang. She closed her eyes and, without looking, picked up before the answer message kicked on. “Hello.”
“I've been trying to call you all night!”
“Oh, I was on campus late, very late, work, took a sail with T.S., swam, fell asleep so so soundly,” she took a sip of cappuccino and began coughing.
“What's the matter?”
“Cappuccino went down the wrong pipe, still going to Spain?”
“Plan to. Yeah.”
Certain she should not be concerned what he thought, that great escape idea on her mind, just-in-case, she lied, “Oh, I forgot to tell you, there's a seminar workshop, Ann Arbor, I think I'm going to go for a couple days.”
“When?”
“This week.”
“Where you be staying?”
“Not sure.”
“Not sure ... what if I need to call you?”
“Cell phone will be with me night and day.”
“Yeah, when it’s on, leave it on.”
“Well, have a good Senate hearing and a safe flight to España.”
“Yeah.”
“When will you be returning?”
Pause, “What's that mean?”
“Oh, for heaven's sake.”
“Probably Sunday late or Monday. And that reminds me, again. Remember the deal, you’re moving to Detroit.”
“I know I know, have a nice trip.”
Outside, lounging beside the pool, T.S. beside her, she took up her journal and wrote:
I never thought I could lie like that. But think about it. The truth would not be a pretty picture now would it. Where on the list does lying fall in relation to adultery? While you're at a listing, try fear, love, dread, anxiety, job, publicity, ethics, sense of fairness, honesty … but no guilt. How do you explain that? Easy and if you don't know by now forget it. Better yet, go back and read a few pages of your journal starting a month after that spectacle at Ford Field. How did you ever agree to that? Let's not rehash that. It was a mistake! I take full responsibility. Could we please move on.
She paused, thought, then continued the entry:
What is this insanity? I'm an adulteress and I don't feel guilty. Would be stoned in some bygone era. Don't discount the present era's lust for savagery. I should have never married … you panicked is what you did, you saw forty plus coming down the pike and you freaked. Carl was so, so, so what? A partner on the Christmas-party dance floor? Animal instinct, I.e., good lay … Doctor Z!
Booga booga. I never thought this could happen. How could things turn out this way? I allowed it to happen. Or did I make it happen? Or is it fate? Ha!
She recalled Seth's theory about the future, living in an unseen myth, someone's imagination, no boundaries, things simply go all over the place, whatever the writer decides, people do. But in The Good Book of Life, minor writers have to be somewhat logical or readers will be suspicious of plot manipulation.
She paused then wrote: PLOT MANIPULATION: Great Escape, HOUGHTON LAKE!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
After she left, Rachelle's smell on him, Seth, every time he closed his eyes, her face, an inch from his, smiled. When he opened his eyes, came thoughts of Laura's visit to Rachelle.
No doubt about it, Laura is nuts. Have to do something about that, but what?
He thought and thought and then he wished Jude was still here. He would sick her on Laura. That not an option, he figured direct approach. But then he reasoned, If you go to Laura what are you going to say? Leave Rachelle alone. Where would that get you? More to the point, where would that get Rachelle. If Laura has gone this far, she might do anything. If you go to her, you are putting Rachelle in the middle and confirming that you are involved with her. Damn! Sooner or later Laura is going to pull something spooky out of her voodoo hat.
There is one other option … but you step over ants on the sidewalk.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Tuesday afternoon, Rachelle in a maze of wondering, longing, anxiety, Seth's face, eyes, the way about him, his touch, his tenderness, his hair, his lips, his being … she whispered many times, “My god, it's insane.”
She counted the hours since she had been with him.
Call him. He has no phone. How could anyone not have a phone? Never thought to ask about email. I wonder … best not to email.
She thought
she heard someone at the door. She opened it. No one.
Why doesn't he come by? Think about that, Z.
She wanted to drive to his place.
That is not how the game is played. Game? Why doesn't he call from a pay phone?
The phone rang. She ran to it. It was a telemarketer. She hung up, poured a glass of white merlot, went for a swim, sailed around the lake, talked to T.S.
Night came, she showered, put on her pajamas, tried to read, watched PBS. At 2:00 A.M. she took up her journal and wrote:
Being with him is as natural as breathing. My skin aches for him … Carl could not handle even the hint of any of this … what does it matter now....
****
Wednesday morning, that Houghton Lake escape idea festering, the idea that Seth might be with one of his female friends … he hadn't called her … something might have happened again, an accident, he might be … besides she had to get his manuscript and, if she did nothing else, she had to get him a cell phone.
She showered, quickly blow-dried her hair, dressed in tan walking shorts, white polo shirt. No socks, slipping on her tennis shoes, she noticed T.S. watching her.
“Don't look at me like that.”
He turned away.
“I won't be gone but a few hours.”
He looked back to her, gave her that I-know-what-is-going-on look, turned and went downstairs.
“Snot.”
Rachelle's first stop was the AT&T retail store where she bought a cell phone and signed up for service using her M.S.U. address. Package in hand, she drove to and parked a block away from Seth's apartment building. The cell phone she had purchased in hand, walking down the street her cell began chiming. Without looking she turned it off and made her way to his apartment and tapped on his door.
No answer, a million thoughts raced through her mind. Prominent was a female opening the door. Worst scenario, Laura opening the door. Maybe he wasn't there.
Seth opened the door. Hair more disheveled than usual, he wore only white boxer shorts. He blinked, rubbed his eyes. “Rache….”