by G L Rockey
“Oh, yes, I'll be fine, thank you.”
“Let's go, Filly.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Next Day
Sitting at his kitchen table, Seth read the Lansing State Journal:
CARL BOSTICH DEAD!
Police have ruled out foul play in the death of football great, Carl Bostich. Bostich’s wife, M.S.U. professor, Dr. Rachelle Zannes, told police she arrived home Saturday morning and found Bostich. He apparently fell from a second story railing at the couple's Lake Lansing home. When paramedics arrived, his spinal cord severed at the neck, Carl was pronounced dead at the scene. Dr. Zannes said her husband had been depressed over the NFL Senate hearings.
Bostich is best known as a Notre Dame Heisman Trophy winner and quarterback for the Detroit Lions. He played for the Lions for two years before suffering a career ending accident. He had recently been summoned and testified in Senate investigations into NFL gambling. Dr. Zannes said there would be no open casket, no reception, that, at Carl's wishes, he would be cremated. Donations in lieu of flowers should be made to The Salvation Army.
A tap at his door, Seth put the paper down and went to see who it was. Laura waved a copy of the Lansing State Journal in his face. She brushed past him.
He said, “What are you doing?”
She slammed the paper on the kitchen table. “Let's talk.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The day after Carl's death, Rachelle had wrapped T.S. in a brick weighted towel, taken him out on Percy Brysse Shelly to the middle of Lake Lansing and gently slipped him into the water.
The following days—M.S.U. staff phone calls, letters, neighbors, cards, funeral parlor, cremation—more than once Rachelle started to enter Seth's cell phone but didn't.
She donated Carl's life insurance to the Salvation Army, sold his BMW.
Then the day arrived when she could wait no longer. She called Seth. What had he been doing?
“What else, going crazy thinking of you.”
“Me too.”
“Can we meet somewhere?”
Rachelle suggested tonight, Rodin Spot. Midnight.
She bathed, rinsed with a cool shower, out of habit began to insert a cervical cap, then smiled and stopped. The Houghton Lake great escape, Freudian slip or not, a home pregnancy test positive, she didn't need one. Wondering if she should tell him now or wait, she blow-dried her hair and dressed in tan walking shorts, navy polo shirt, and slipped on her white running shoes.
Seth showed up late. She said, “You know I'm the one who is supposed to be late.”
He put his arm around her, pressed his lips to hers, and they lingered breathing in each other.
Finally, she whispered, “I’ve been thinking....”
“Uh oh.”
“With everything that’s happened, so many ... you still want to go away?”
“More than ever.”
“Remember I told you I took a sabbatical, taught at Auckland University?”
“When do we leave?”
“I'm sure I could get a position there. You could paint, write.”
“Drive a taxi.”
They discussed plans. He would check flights. She squeezed his arm.
“There's a problem.”
“What?”
“Flying.”
“How did you get there?”
“Water.”
“You swam.”
“Smarty. Ship.”
“We could do that.”
He would check ship passage to Auckland. She would list the house with a real estate company, close bank accounts, sell her car. She would give Percy Bysshe Shelley to Kim. She could never part with Esther II, would keep the cottage at Houghton Lake for now, who knows, later maybe they would want to come back.
She said, “Do you need some money?”
“No.”
She gave him a hundred-dollar bill.
“I don't need that.”
“Take it. I'll feel better.”
“No.”
She put it in his hand and whispered, “Seth, are we evil?”
“Of course not.”
Rachelle thinking, Tell him you’re pregnant, he said, “There's a problem.”
“What?”
“Laura.”
“What!”
“She showed up at my apartment. She shot that video Carl showed you.”
Rachelle slammed her fists to his chest and gushed in a whisper, “I knew it … I hate that bitch of yours. What is it with you and that bitch and you!”
“She's insane.”
She began a quiet chuckle that turned into a laugh. Holding it back, she began to cry, “Oh my God, this is all so insane.”
“You okay?”
“Delirious.”
He said, “What did you do with that video?”
“I ate it. No, I have it tucked safely away, why?”
“Laura wanted to know why there was nothing in the media about it, if the police had found it.”
“It doesn't exist.” She looked at him. “She didn't have another copy, did she?”
“I don't think so, she didn't say.”
“She must love you madly.”
“I think it is more a case of getting what she wants, possessing, another conquest.”
“Bosh, she loves you madly and you know it.”
“That could be, but I love only you.”
“You sure?”
“You don't have to ask that.”
“So what did you tell her?”
“I told her what happened, it was an accident. Even if there was a video, what you reported, the police determined it to be true, Carl's death was accidental.”
“Did you tell her he killed T.S. Eliot?”
“She would have liked that.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why didn't you?”
“Rachelle, Laura is history, I told her I never wanted to see her again, why do you persist.”
“I'm jealous of anything that touches you, even a thought.”
That distilled between them, she said, “I'll talk to Dean Rait tomorrow. Tell him I have to get away, he'll understand.” She paused, “I'll call you, let's have dinner tomorrow night.”
He hesitated, “Maybe we should, you know … with Laura snooping around....”
She looked at him quizzically.
He said, “I'm just thinking it might not look … who know what she's up to.”
She studied his eyes, “Carl's death was an accident, Seth.”
“You're right, it was, what can she do, let's have dinner.” He took her face in his hands and kissed nose, cheeks, lips, chin, neck.
She said, “Remember the first night we made love?”
“How could I forget?”
She took his hand and led him to the secluded spot.
“Isn't this dangerous?”
“Yes,” amazed even her.
Later, after driving Seth to his apartment (she wanted to spend the night, he thought not a good idea), driving home, she wondered about his concerns, had he seen her final nudge of Carl? Was he still seeing....
Stop that, he loves me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Seth up early, thoughts of Rachelle—waking next to her every morning, her fresh smells, touching her, tasting her—he began ordering things in his mind for departure.
He would give his paintings to Tony Leeoda. He would go to his Math professor, tell her the facts of life, he would never pass the course, he would respectfully ask her to just give him a D. If she wanted to hold him up, deny his graduating, so be it.
He would write the Art Institute and defer attendance. Advise da Vinci's he would be leaving.
He couldn't believe it was really happening. It was almost like something in a novel, he might write about it. Time to paint, time to write, he paused for a moment to survey his apartment.
The place he had lived in for the last three some years, so much had happened. Parts of him
would always remain there. He looked out the window. It had begun to sprinkle. He went down to the deli to tell Tony he would be moving out sooner than expected.
Looking at Tony, he told him he wanted him to have his paintings.
Tony beside himself, “You give-a em me? Oh boy, thank-a you. Where a-you go?”
“New Zealand.”
“Hope you like sheep.”
Seth chuckled.
“You go-a with that beauti one, honey brown hair?”
“Tony, how did you know?”
“I see everything, she's a sumthing.”
“I love her more than living.”
“Good-a for you. Get away from that other one, that crazy one.”
“You do see everything, don't you.”
“When-a you go?”
“I'll let you know, but soon, couple weeks.”
Back in his apartment, a knock at Seth's door surprised him. He wondered if it might be Tony or maybe Rachelle. He went to the door. Laura. Mascara smeared, black trench coat, hands in pockets, she stared at him.
“What do you want?”
She brushed past him. “I saw that bitch drop you off last night.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Fuck you don't.”
“Leave pleased.”
“I'm going to the police. I have a copy of that video.”
“Go, there is nothing to report. Whatever there is between Rachelle and me, Carl's death was an accident.”
“Liar.”
“You don't get it, do you Laura.”
“So what are you and that bitch sneaking around for?”
“We're not sneaking around.”
“Liar.”
Seth told her she could do whatever she wanted. He was leaving town and she could shove off, move on, get a life, drop dead.
“What do you mean you're leaving town?”
“None of your business.”
He went to the door, opened it and turned to her. “Please leave now.”
Laura pulled a hand gun from her trench coat pocket, pointed it at his chest. Blank green eyes burning, through clenched teeth, she said, “Shut the fucking door.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Up early, excitement rampant, after cappuccino, Rachelle had a thought. She would surprise Seth. She drove to Allan Street, parked a block away, and walked to his apartment. Near the stairwell entrance, she noticed that familiar black sport's car parked next to the curb. No. Couldn't be. She entered the building, made her way up the stairs, stepped lightly back the hallway to the apartment door.
Voices.
Before knocking she listened:
Seth: “Laura, Laura, Laura.”
A rustling sound, a woman's hysterical laughing, the F-word woman's voice: “What did you tell the good professor? Would you pretty please pose for me?” F-word woman howled in short barks, then said: “Did you lay your favorite line on the bitch, 'let's start with a portrait?'”
Rachelle stumbled backward, backed away, bolted down the stairs, got in her car and sped off.
Twenty minutes later, home, she fell up the stairs into the kitchen. She locked the door. She paced. She paced. Her mind a blur, she stumbled to the bar and poured herself a glass of white merlot. Maybe she dreamt it, maybe….
She dialed Seth's cell phone.
“Hello bitch, caller ID.” Laura howled.
Rachelle dropped the phone to the floor.
She staggered down to the pier. She looked at the water. She looked around. Where was she? Who was she? She jumped in the water. Up to her neck, she looked around. Her glass of wine gone, she climbed up on the dock. Sat. Sat. Sat on the edge. Feet in the water, shoes soaked.
She went back to the house, stripped, poured another glass of wine, swigged tequila from a bottle.
You fool. You ass. It's been a plot from the beginning. No wonder he didn't want you to spend the night.
Pointing to her stomach, she screamed, “AND WHAT ABOUT THIS!”
She thought of calling Kim. She couldn't. She drank until she passed out.
Just after midnight, she awoke on the sofa. Still nude, head splitting, she wanted not to be awake. To be dead. She made cappuccino, spiked it heavily with brandy. Sipping, the brandy taking effect, she wondered again if maybe she had dreamt it all. She looked at the phone. She looked at the keypad. She looked. Caller ID. A thought: The pay phone at the park, just a half mile away. She pulled on sweats and drove there, pulled to the phone, deposited coins then pressed Seth's cell number.
Biting her nails, she anticipated Laura answering.
A strange male voice: “Hello.”
Had she pressed the right number?
Male: “Hello.”
“I'm sorry, I must have the wrong number.”
“Who were you calling?”
“Seth Trudow.”
“You got the right number, lady, who is this?”
“Who is this?”
“Detective Sid Kraus, Lansing Police Department.”
She hung up. Stunned in a schizophrenic moment, she thought of driving to Seth's.
Are you nuts? The police … what would … no! Probably drug related anyway, they both were … both!
Pounding the steering wheel, driving, she mumbled: “This is insane. A cheap movie, a penny arcade, historical recording, Movie Tone Newsreel, an O. Henry ending, but not a dream. My god!”
Home, she drank herself unconscious.
Up in the morning, she made a cup of cappuccino then staggered to retrieve the morning newspaper, took it to the kitchen table, sat, and going was cartoon reality, she couldn't breathe, couldn't read, flipped on the TV. The station tuned to NBC, a local news cut-in was in progress.
Rachelle immediately noticed, yes, video of Tony's Deli. A female announcer's voice: “Responding to reports of gun shots from Tony's Deli owner Tony Leeoda, Lansing Police discovered the bodies of two people early this morning. The couple were apparently the victims of a murder suicide. Detectives confirmed that forensics showed the same weapon was used in both deaths. Deli owner Tony Leeoda had this to say.”
Video of Tony speaking: “Couple have-a some big argue just-a before the big bang happen last night. Locks-a changed just-a few weeks ago. Too bad-a cause-a the tenant had-a give me notice, was a plan to move New Zealand.”
Close up TV announcer: “Dead are Seth Trudow, a M.S.U. student, and Laura Toth, a local photographer. Police confirm Trudow was shot by Toth who then committed....”
Rachelle fainted.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The next day Rachelle went to Tony Leeoda and introduced herself. He knew her already. They talked. Tony told her that Seth was so looking forward to going to New Zealand with her, had given him his paintings, which he offered to share with her.
Rachelle wept softly.
They talked. Seth had no known relatives. Rachelle wanted a proper burial for Seth. Tony knew what to do, would take care of it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Two Weeks Later
Summer evening cool, Rachelle sat at her Rodin spot. A gust of cool wind passed over her face. A loneliness unknown, she noticed a taste, not of tongue, but of that last autumn, the one song writers write about. She opened her journal and wrote:
If I had only knocked on his apartment door....
She retreated into her well-trained intellect and looked for a pattern of reasoned thought in her intellectual training that would make the sorrow go away. She wrote:
Truth is dead. Truth and time and life are intertwined. Life cannot exist outside of time. Equally, time cannot exist outside of life. Take away time and there is no life. Take away life and there is no time. The Universe exists because it is set in time. Time is the substance of the Universe. Matter is finite living. Beyond the stars is only time. Likewise are thoughts from the mind....
She stopped then wrote:
This sorrow is hungry. This sorrow sucks at the flesh.
Her eyes fixed
in the non-focused stare of the dead, she couldn't cry. She wrote:
Cry for the living, not the dead.
She thought of how sweet and comforting life's end would be. Her father was there, her mother, now Seth. She wrote:
And here am I, left to rot on a stinking sick planet filled with peddlers of promises. Please, I want to be with you. Please don't leave me here to rot with the dollar world. If I had only knocked on your door … how could I have doubted you, been such a fool?
She paused then wrote:
You sweet young prince, your presence is all around me, in me. Your words, rummaging around here with the living are in me, the living, do you hear me?
She remembered what he had told her in one of their intimate moment about writing: words never live until read by another human being … a book not read is like a life unborn.
She touched her belly and whispered, “You will live on, a gift to the world. I will see to it.”
She took up her journal and, in the fading light of dusk, read again a poem she had torn from a book of poems.
TO W.P. by George Santayana
I
Calm was the sea to which your course you kept,
Oh, how much calmer than all southern seas!
Many your nameless mates, whom the keen breeze
Wafted from mothers that of old have wept.
All souls of children taken as they slept
Are your companions, partners of your ease,
And the green souls of all these autumn trees
Are with you through the silent spaces swept.
your virgin body face its gentle breath
Untainted to the gods. Why should we grieve,
But that we merit not your holy death?
We shall not loiter long, your friends and I;
Living you made it goodlier to live,
Dead you will make it easier to die
II