Truths of the Heart Page 6
On the wall behind Rachelle's desk hung two 4x5 posters. One, a black and white picture of the famous poet, T.S. Eliot. The other, a color photograph of the other T.S. Eliot, her cat.
Rachelle stepped to the window and opened the blinds. The office flooded with light. She looked at the picture view of the tree shrouded campus lawn. After a distilled moment, she stepped to a CD stereo player. Below the player, in neatly ordered rows, were many CDs. Most prominent: CATS, Oklahoma, Guys and Dolls, Madam Butterfly, and her father's favorite, Phantom of the Opera.
She snapped the stereo on, loaded the CATS' CD and a piano version of “Memory” filled the room.
She sat at her desk and read the permission-to-admit form that Kay had given her:
PERMISSION TO TAKE GRADUATE COURSE FOR UNDERGRADUATE CREDIT
Student Name: Trudow, Seth
Student ID: 286-11-1754, Cumulative GPA: 3.18
Course: Com. 501
Reason for this request: Art Major, need eight elective credits hours (not ART) to graduate … hate math, chemistry, political science, and pizza….
Approvals: signature approval from these five people in descending order—course instructor, student's advisor, department chair, dean of graduate studies, and associate provost.
(Note: signatures must be obtained in descending order)
Rachelle paused, smiled, then looked, below the 'approvals' notice at the blank space for her authorization. Below the blank space were four signatures: Seth's advisor, the department chair, the dean, and the associate provost. All there but hers. If she didn't approve, it was all for naught. “Hummm.” She again read the reason for the request then with flourish signed the form and took it back to Kay.
Kay said, “You're going to let him in!”
“Yes.”
“Heaven help us.”
“We need all the help we can get.”
Kay looked at the form, “The charmer said he'd be back to pick it up, he acted like it was a done deal.” She looked at Rachelle, “Not too late, I could lose it.”
“Kay, be nice. Maybe he will stir some creative juices around here.”
“He's juiced all right.” Kay made circles, this time with a yellow pencil, at her right temple. “'Something there is that doesn't like a wall….'”
Rachelle smiled, returned to her office, closed the door, sat at her desk and read the M.S.U. catalogue description for her new course:
Com. 501, Department of Communication
Creative interpretation in the study of abstract meanings through the written word. Emphasis is on communicating universal truths through poems, novels, short stories, novellas, plays.
She picked up and studied the printed notes for the class syllabus she had prepared:
Com. 501, FALL SEMESTER
Olds Hall, Room #107, MONDAY AND WEDNESDAY, 2-3:00
Dr. Rachelle Zannes
Department of Communication
OFFICE: 201 Bessey Hall, office hours T/TH, 10-11 A.M., or by arrangement. Phone 272-4767
TEXTS: Reading list attached. A one page synopsis with a second page criticism will be due as indicated on the list. Students who wish to study works others than those listed, please see me. Writing journal, in-class readings, discussion required.
NOTE: Course writing project due, April 1. Prior approval of writing project required. Make appointment to discuss. No formal class meeting in second semester. Individual conferences only. Make appointments with instructor.
Rachelle penciled the draft 'OK,' made a note to Kay, 'Fourteen copies,' then began reading, from a yellow legal pad, lecture notes for her first class meeting:
...We will delve into the uniquely abstract (human we assume) concepts of universal truths—love, honor, pity, pride, compassion, sacrifice … concepts science cannot measure....
Just then her cell phone rang. She looked, Carl. She answered. “Hi.”
“Hey babe, what’s ya doing?”
“Reading Plato.”
Pause. “I'm on my way to San Francisco International, raining out here, how's it there?”
“Great.”
“Have to connect in Detroit, then a puddle jumper to Lansing. I hate that.”
“I know.”
“Don't forget to pick me up.”
“5:30.”
“Anything in the local newspaper about last nights' game, my debut?”
“Ah … I didn't see anything.”
“Figures, Lansing hicks, probably something in the Detroit Free Press. I'll pick one up at the airport. Hour layover in Detroit, dearest one.”
She suppressed a yawn.
Carl: “Nothing to say.”
“What's to say?”
“I have a surprise for you.”
“Oh? What?”
“Wouldn't be a surprise if I told you. See you this afternoon.”
“See you.”
“You forgot something.”
“Tell me.”
“I love you.”
“Me too.” TONE.
Sure she was correct about telling him the nothing-in-the newspaper little-white-lie, he would just brood on the long flight, she continued reading her notes:
Some question there is universal truth … claim there is only individual truth. That being the case, individual death and all, everything eventually must end. But some truths, it seems, go on, from generation to generation … are they learned, innate, or infused … pride, compassion, etc., concepts I just mentioned. In any case, for us in this course, we want to deal with beginnings.
Creativity indicates a beginning. William Faulkner seemed to hit the nail on the head, 'to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before....’
She stopped reading and leaned back. She had prepared for fall classes for more years than she cared to recall. But this new course was bringing forth uncanny vibrations, questions, uneasiness. The recurring premonition: somehow this year is going to be different. Something in the air, the atmosphere, the water, refrigerator, tooth paste, the birds flying by the window; this one will be singular.
There is something in the air all right and it's spelled F-o-r-d Field, the fifty-yard line, national TV audience, 65,000 people in the stadium....
Stop that, just stop it.
She picked up the computer printout of Com. 501 enrollment. Thirteen students, all graduates, but now, with this senior, Seth Tudor added, fourteen.
She stood, stretched, took the syllabus to Kay, gave it to her and said,
“Fourteen copies please, for next Monday's class.”
“Next?”
“I mean the 26th.”
“Jitters about Ford Field?”
“Never.”
Just then colleagues Tim Hackworth and Kim Lee looked in. Tim smiled like he had just won the lottery. Kim, brown circles under her eyes, looked like last weeks' rye bread.
Rachelle said to Tim, “What's a matter with her?”
Tim said, “Come on Z, time for lunch.”
“Where you going?”
Tim: “I've unearthed this great wing and burger place, epicurean’s delight, the Port-o-Call bar and grill, Pleasant Lake.”
Rachelle, “You got to be kidding me, that's an hour drive each way, besides, I'm not dressed; I was going to go for a jog.”
Kay said to Rachelle, “Oh go on, nothing going on here, except a wayward senior.”
Tim: “Come on, Kim needs some company, a shoulder to cry on.”
“What's the matter?”
Tim: “Come on, take a break,” he winked at Kay, “Z’s gonna need all the breaks she can get before Ford Field, right Kay.”
Kay nodded with a smile. “And then she has to fly to Phoenix for the honeymoon.”
Tim said, “And fly back.”
Rachelle: “Jackals.”
****
His Jeep Wrangler's top removed, Tim drove like a two week vacation had just begun. Buckled up, Kim sat front right. Rachelle, holding on to the overhead roll b
ar, sat in back. Above the wind she said to Kim, “So what's the matter with Kimberly, you get a last-minute class assignment?”
Tim looked in the read view mirror and Rachelle noted a twinkle in his eye.
Rachelle's cell phone rang.
Wind whistling around, Kim and Timothy could hear only Rachelle: “Hello there … yes, of course I will … no … lunch with some colleagues … no … yes, 5:30 … okay … me too … bye.”
Kim turned to Rachelle and rolled her blood shot eyes skyward.
Timothy chuckled.
Kim poked him in the ribs.
At the seedy lake-side Port-o-Call, burgers ordered, Corona long necks served, Tim's broad smile turned patrons' heads.
Kim asked Tim if he would please go smile at the lake.
Grinning broadly, he took his Corona and went outside.
Rachelle, “What's he so happy about?”
Kim, in tears, unloaded: The engagement, marriage to Dent, everything was off. She shared (Tim knew) with Rachelle the reason: Dent had reconciled with his wife, Penny.
Rachelle, after a nothing-to-say distilled minute, as Kim silently cried, said, “Maybe it's for the better.”
Food served, Rachelle called out an open window, “Okay Tim, soup's on.”
Tim returned, sat next to Kim and massaged her neck.
Rachelle to Tim, “You seem happy as a duck.”
“I've been after Kimberly for an eternity.”
After a rambling two-hour disavowal-avowal-confession lunch, the trio got back to Bessey Hall just after 3:30. A note from Kay advised Rachelle that, as she was dropping off some paperwork at the Registrar's office, she would not be back. Tim and Kim were going for a walk and three students stood at Rachelle's office door. Two needed to talk about their final grade in Com. 201 and the third, Nancy Bidwell, a grad student (Rachelle her adviser), had a problem with her fall schedule. She needed a class to graduate and it was full. Rachelle called the professor, pleaded, begged, coerced, promised a steak dinner, and got Nancy into the class. Nancy lingered on, finally thanked Rachelle and left.
Rachelle noticed the time, 5:20. “Rats!” She rushed out the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fifteen minutes later, 5:35, approaching the GROUND TRANSPORTATION sign at Lansing's Capital City Airport, Rachelle saw, standing at the curb like his feet were stuck in the cement, Carl. Hands on hips, red tie loosened, cigarette dangling from his lower lips, newspaper under his left arm, he glared at her like he would turn her car over, at least eat the front bumper.
She pulled to the curb and stopped. He opened the back door, threw in his garment bag, got in the front, flipped his cigarette to the curb, slammed the door, said, “Nice you could make it.”
“Carl….”
“Could we please go?”
Pulling away from the curb, “Carl, I'm sorry, I….”
“That's okay, I'm used to waiting at airport curbside with the great unwashed.”
“Carl, I got involved … a student had a problem….”
“Oh, we wouldn't want a student to have a problem, now would we?”
She tried to change the subject. “Did you hear about Kim and Dent?”
“Don't change the subject.”
After a minute, he said, “What about them?”
“The engagement, wedding, it's off. Dent went back with his wife.”
“Par for the course with Dent, been there before.”
“You did know, then, didn't you?”
“What?”
“When we talked, you told me Dent was going to be your best man. I mentioned Kim and you stammered all over the block.”
“I didn't know.”
“You did so.”
“No, swear to god.”
He's lying. “So how was your flight?”
“Hah.”
She smiled, “You want to stop and put some food on that mooing self-pity boo boo?”
“No!”
The Saab engine sputtered as Rachelle pulled from a red light.
Carl: “When are you going to get rid of this piece of junk?”
She increased the speed to 45.
“This is a 35-speed zone.”
“So it is.” She increased the speed to 50.
“Go ahead, it's your ass.” He leaned over and looked at the speedometer.
She said, “What are you doing?”
“Checking the mileage on this piece of junk?”
“I can tell you, 64,556.”
“Put on a few miles since I left.”
She paused, He checked the mileage.
Carl: “Anything in the local paper about my debut?”
She lied: “Not that I saw.”
“Pricks in Detroit gave me one line.” He opened the paper and read: “'New radio side kick of Corky Dixon, former Lions quarterback, Carl Bostich, could possibly have helped the Lions lackluster performance.'” He slammed the paper shut, “That's it, believe that shit? One line.”
Rachelle thought, Wait till you read the Lansing State Journal.
At home, Carl slung his garment bag to the kitchen floor, kicked at T.S.Eliot, went to the great room, mixed himself a rum and Coke, sat at the bar, lit a cigarette and said, “Where's today's Lansing rag?”
“On the coffee table.” Rachelle said as she went to the kitchen to prepare a cup of cappuccino.
Carl retrieved the paper, went back to the bar, opened to the Sports Section and his eyes immediately went to the Bud West article.
He read slowly then screamed: “What the fuck! Did you read this?”
At the kitchen table, Rachelle crossed her fingers and called, “I didn't have time to read the paper this morning.”
Carl’s voice crackling, “'Get the hook, know a cheerleader from a tight-end, equipment manager, Gatoraid Boy!' ”
He threw the newspaper to the floor, “Cock sucker, son of a bitch. Who the fuck is Bud West? Bet the prick never played a sport in his life, little runt wannabe. All those pricks can do is write about it. Let the prick put on a jock strap, shoulder pads, get on the field, I'd kick the piss out of him.”
Seemingly amazed by it all, T.S. studied Rachelle. She bugged her eyes at him.
Carl called, “You didn't see this?”
“I told you, no. I didn't even have time to read the cartoons this morning.”
“What was the hurry, have somebody in bed with you?”
“Just the Spartan baseball team.”
“Ha ha ha.” He sipped, thought a minute, then went to the kitchen and put his arms around her shoulders. “You better start reading the Sports section, honey, seeing how you're marrying into football history.”
“I promise.”
He kissed her, thought about telling her about the WJJ Playing for Keeps show, but decided he'd wait until it was a done deal, surprise at an opportune time. He nibbled on her ear, “I'm going to take a hot bath, wanna join me?”
“Later, I have some catch up to do.”
Grumbling, fresh drink in hand, he climbed the staircase, went to the bedroom, and turned the TV to an ESPN baseball game. The TV sound blaring, he went to the bath, drew the tub full of hot water, turned the whirlpool surge on high, stripped and, with drink in hand, sunk his body in the gurgling foam.
Rachelle, working at the kitchen table, could hear, above the TV sound, bits and pieces of him spouting ugly things about sports writers, students, and Saabs. Finally she yelled, “Will you cool it!”
After a half hour, the whirlpool turned off, slamming drawers and doors, Carl, cloaked in his blue Lions bathrobe, ambled downstairs. Sulking, he began making himself ham and eggs. In the process a raw egg dropped to the floor. T.S. eyed the running yoke. Rachelle shooed him and, cleaning the mess up, asked Carl if she might do the cooking for him.
Pouting, “If it's not too much to ask.”
While he watched the baseball game on the kitchen TV, Rachelle fried four eggs sunny side up, a slab of ham, hash browns, and toast. He sat to eat and she notic
ed he hesitated.
“What's the matter?”
“These eggs are a little over cooked.”
“Next time you'll get them raw.”
He watched TV, ate, wiped the plate clean with a piece of toast. Sulking, he went to the great room, turned on the TV, mixed himself a drink, and sprawled out on the sofa and watched another baseball game on ESPN.
Many things on her mind, familiar with Carl's moods, T. S. following, Rachelle went upstairs. She changed into a Garfield nightshirt, sat on the sitting room sofa and worked on a draft research paper she wanted to submit to the Journal of Communication.
Tweaking the document, she lost concentration to guilt thoughts of being late in picking up Carl this afternoon. She took up her journal and wrote:
Feeling guilty about being late to pick Carl up. Was a little hard on him even though he was being an asshole. After all, he was a BMOC, always will be. Don't forget, he lost a career in a freaky accident, suffered a devastating blow to his pride and ego. His hopes, dreams of the Hall of Fame, at least one Super Bowl ring, millions of dollars lost … who wouldn't be a little testy, frustrated. And I really do need to work on my tardiness. It's just selfish, undisciplined, unprofessional behavior. Ahh, but methinks it is something deeper than that, Professor. None of those adjectives—selfish, undisciplined, unprofessional—fit. For you see, in high school, you were always the first to hand in assignments, never late for classes, receiving high marks for thoroughness, neatness.