Truths of the Heart Page 9
“You feel that?” he said.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Blue.”
“I'm not sure whether to be flattered or….”
“You feel that?”
She closed her attaché, “Class dismissed.”
“There it is again.”
“Maybe it's this old building settling.”
“May I walk you to your next class?”
“Thank you but I'm finished for the day, going to my office.”
“I'm going that way, Bessey Hall.”
Walking the campus, amid hellos from students and recognition nods, Seth listened to the rustling of her clothes, noted the sun reflecting off her hair. He could walk to California with her, words were not needed, it was like being home, finally forever. He wondered if she must feel it too. Approaching the entrance to Bessey Hall, it was too soon over.
“This is me,” she said.
“I know.”
“See you Wednesday.”
“See you.” He watched her turn away and glide to the entrance of Bessey Hall. Amazing, simply amazing.
Entering Bessey Hall, for some reason, Zannes thought, someone special has just been met. Then she recalled Carl, returning from a Sunday night football game in Dallas. She had to pick him up at the airport.
Entering her reception area, two students were waiting to see her, and Kay handed her a message to call Dean Rait.
CHAPTER TWO
After “Anatomy Drawing 401”, the last class for the day, Seth took a
Capital Transit bus, got off at a familiar spot on West Grand Avenue, and walked a half mile to Chapel Hill Cemetery.
A habit acquired after his sister's death, he often visited final resting places in an attempt to sort out the big mystery, at least try to find a few good answers, some meanings. The question that kept popping up was the one from which all else flowed: is this all an accident or was it begun by creative design?
So far Seth hadn't seen any ghosts, aliens, or cute little E.T.s. And, other than the voice urging him to paint (he had a hunch the urge-voice was Seth Trudow incognito), he hadn't heard anything on the accident/creative design matter either.
Searching for answers, meaning, he reasoned, had begun after Natalie's death. He could never forget his father meandering around in that “what-if” garden of why. Or maybe the search was innate, come slithering from under a rock into a bright and shiny world. Or maybe it was simply a drunk who had too many snorts of tequila. Time to think, listen to the universe, at least give 'hello' a chance, then get out. But the finding is not so simple and here we are. Blah blah blah. If people knew you hung around graveyards talking to dead people they would probably lock you up … blah blah blah.
He walked slowly over the thick grass, past headstones large and small, reading dates he said, “No exceptions here, you get two dates, beginning and end, that's it Seth-o. And so what and who cares? Zeus, Helga, or Rain Forest?
He listened. Not news, Seth my boy, question of the centuries, out of the muck, little blue blobs did we come or....
“Blah blah blah my easel.”
You know there is another reason you are here visiting the bone yard this fine day. It's the intensity of that Zannes' encounter this afternoon, it requires a sorting out.
He shook his head and kicked at a clump of grass. Why, like a kick in the head comes this apparition. This Diva, popping into my life out of where? A flesh and blood Venus, making me nuts … what is that all about? Nothing will ever be the same again, forever.
He sat by a 4x2 block of marble and read a familiar epitaph:
MARCH 28, 1952 - NOVEMBER 17, 1967
A BELOVED SON
PFC, BENJAMIN C. ARCHER, C. CO. FIRST CALVARY DIVISION
KILLED IN ACTION
IA DRANG VALLEY, VIET NAM, 17 NOVEMBER 1965
“So, Ben, how goes it?”
He listened for a moment. Nothing.
“Ben, I saw this creature today, she is like no one I have ever seen before. She radiates like the first sun must have given off first light.”
He listened, felt a presence and said, “She's a professor, an apparition, Dr. Rachelle Zannes. I tell you, Ben, she looked at me and I felt like water being sucked down a drain … looking at her I was almost convinced a God must have begun all this because she couldn't have ape genes … she is too … pristine … I can't imagine what it would like to touch her, taste her.”
Seth paused, then asked, “Did you know those feelings, Ben?”
He waited as if hearing a question, then clarified, “You know, when you lived, did you see another creature you couldn't take your eyes off of?”
He listened, then said, “I guess so … it was kind of young for you to check out, Ben. But you know what Lord Byron said, 'Whom the Gods love die young'.” He picked up a stick and tossed it. “Not much comfort from Byron for you Ben, when the god in the poem is some jackass looking to win an election. Worse yet, an ego-filled maniac looking to pin another star on his collar. Just run on up there guys, take that hill, I gotta get a hot shower. Be at the Officer’s Club bar if you need me.”
He kicked at the grass, paused, listened, remembered words from somewhere he had read or dreamed or thought of:
War's murderous insanity trampling over the canvas of time … dung-covered boots in search of fame, glory, money in the name of God, country, and free elections! And what is God doing while the self-righteousness gluttons driven by pride, testosterone, lust, trample the earth? Where will it end? Humanity burned in a blaze of nothing, a smoldering cinder in the Milky Way, gone forever and for what! What is it that these lust warriors want? Food, sex, wine, fame, power, what is it? What is worth the death of one person to satisfy their craving? Insanity is in vogue. Truth becomes lie, lie becomes truth.
Just then a white step van pulled up on a gravel road, twenty feet from the grave site. A window rolled down, a male voice called, “Hey pal, you okay over there, we close in fifteen minutes.”
Seth waved, “Okay, just leaving.”
It thundered and began to sprinkle.
Seth stood, “I gotta go Ben, stay warm, talk to you later.”
CHAPTER THREE
Rachelle, sweaty palms, white satin blouse damp with sweat, ten minutes late in the picking-up-Carl business, inching along the airport pedestrian area, saw Carl. Avoiding a light rainfall, he stood back under an overhang.
“Oh geez,” she whispered and pulled to the curb.
He jerked open the rear door, tossed his garment bag on the back seat, slammed the door shut, then jerked open the front door. He paused outside then slumped in on the passenger seat and shouted, “This is fucking bullshit, Rachelle, plain fucking bullshit!” Specks of spit hit her cheek. He slammed the door shut.
Driving away from the curb, Rachelle said, “So, how was your flight?”
“Plain bullshit!”
“That bad, huh.”
“Bullshit.”
Smelling the rum on his breath, “How many rum and Cokes did you have on the plane?”
“Fifty.” He lit a Kool.
“Carl, I'm sorry....”
“Goddamn it, how could you do that to me, I've been on a goddamn smelly planes, tired, hungry … shit fire, Rachelle.”
“Carl, I'm sorry, a student had a problem....”
“A student had a... she's got nothing to do all day but breastfeed a bunch of punks and I gotta wait at a goddamn airport, curbside, with the peasants, in the fucking rain!”
She thought: I have a full class load, nine hours plus the new course, Grad Advisor to two students, research writing, publication demands, Lansing Symphony Board of Directors.... “Carl, we can't go through this every time....”
“We shouldn't have to if you gave a good goddamn.”
“I don't understand why you just don't drive to the airport.”
“I'm not parking my Beamer at any goddamn airport parking lot demolition derby.”
“Okay, take a cab.”
&n
bsp; “Take a cab, take a cab.”
“What are you going to do when you start the WJJ thing in three weeks?”
“THING! Jesus Christ!” He slammed the dash.
“Okay, okay, the radio show.”
“If you'd quite that goddamn stupid teaching job and move to Detroit, discussion over.”
“We've been through....”
“Shut up.”
“Carl, you are being an asshole.”
“Fuck you.”
“You too.”
Windshield wipers flapping, Rachelle smiled to herself, So this is it, been married three weeks … how soon the honeymoon is over. Was it something in the water or what? It's not like you could not have seen this coming. I know, what we do for love, that’s a stretch or a song and this is not music 101.
The slick street, traffic slowing things down, as she drove, he took her right hand in his and put it on his maleness. “I'm sorry, it's just that I love you so much.”
She removed her hand from his grasp.
Twenty minutes later she pulled into the garage of the Lake Lansing home.
Miffed at her rebuff, Carl got out, slammed the door, retrieved his garment bag and went up the stairs to the kitchen. Inside, he kicked at T.S. but, knowing better, missed.
Rachelle entering behind him, said, “You know if you ever actually kick T.S. I'll throw you out.”
“Bullshit,” he threw his garment bag on the floor, went to the bar, mixed himself a double rum and Coke, sat on a barstool, and lit a Kool King cigarette.
Rachelle put her things in the kitchen, checked the phone to be sure the message machine was on, then went to the bar and sat beside Carl: “Carl, I'm sorry….”
“Shut up.”
“Don't tell me to shut up.”
He stirred his ice around in his drink with his left index finger and said, “You don't love me.”
“Carl, Carl, Carl … look, if this airport business is going to upset you every time I'm a little late....”
“A little late!”
“Okay a lot late.”
“Why do you let it happen?”
“Carl, I'm … my schedule….”
“Your schedule … what am I, fucking cat food?” He threw his glass at the fireplace. It shattered. Liquid ran down and around the stones.
T.S. hissed and ran up the spiral staircase.
Rachelle, standing, said, “Carl, don't ever do that again.”
He threw another glass at the fireplace. “Fuck you.”
“Asshole.” She started up the staircase. “As far as I'm concerned you can walk, drive, take a cab, stick your Beamer up your ass … I'm not moving to Detroit and I'm not going through this juvenile airport nonsense anymore.”
He moved quickly, thrust his hand through the iron grate railing, and grabbed her right ankle. Her black pump came off and dropped to the floor.
Struggling, she, for the first time, felt fearful of Carl. “Let go of me.”
“You're not going anywhere.”
“Carl, you're hurting me.”
Holding on tightly, “Come back down here, you, join me for a drink. Let's talk this thing over.”
“Stop it.” She kicked his hand loose and ran up to the bedroom.
Carl followed, playfully tackled her, pinned her to the floor. She struggled but as he forced her, for some reason from somewhere, that third-rung lust rose in her. She stopped resisting. He picked her up, tossed her on the bed, stripped her naked, tore his clothes off, devoured then entered her. Clutching the bed sheets, she screamed in pleasure.
Then Carl did something new. He withdrew from her, stood beside the bed, pulled her face to him and forced his penis into her mouth. Moaning like a volcanic mountain about to explode, he ejaculated in her mouth then fell on the bed.
Rachelle went to the bathroom and vomited.
****
Returning to the bedroom, Carl on the bed snoring, she put on a white silk night gown, took her journal and went downstairs to the great room. T.S., asleep on the sofa, she sat beside him and looked out the window. The thunderstorm had passed and the setting sun was sending streaks of red through the darkening twilight sky. She took her pen and wrote:
It's not like this is a surprise. That oral thing was. You could have seen this coming if you had just let yourself see. It was there all the time. I see things there that I was blind to before. Hah! You were not blind, you chose to ignore.
I have a sick need to be dominated and it scares me … affinity for animal lust … for some reason from somewhere, that third-rung hunger rose in me. I gave in, loved it, then the little surprise, new twist. Male with his hot tool needing a tweak … the hunter … the stronger … woman his receptacle … mother … what is this? Is it in everyone? Maybe from the past … male and female … So la-de-da and here we are but I can't do that oral thing anymore. In affairs academia you do well, Z. But when it comes to picking men, affairs-of-the-heart, you are a total disaster. Recall beau Anthony, ogled you while he ministered to himself.
At least, not like some we know, he kept his little load to himself. This one you knew (yes, now I know I knew) was for the wrong reasons, date for the Christmas party … no, dear, what it was, plain and simple, was LUST! Okay, so maybe I made a mistake. Everybody is entitled to one. I've done pretty well until … how stupid it was though … a whopper. Now what to do? You've only been married three weeks. How would that look? You, always with the how would that look....
She noticed her pen seemed to be writing by itself, Carl … new job … Detroit … apartment!
CHAPTER FOUR
After leaving Chapel Hill, Seth took a bus to East Lansing to visit his frequent hang out, Pudd'nheads. The popular tavern featured a twenty-stool U-shaped bar, cozy lounge with green-covered booths, and a 15x20 dance floor.
Exiting the bus, Seth noted, the rain stopped, the early evening sky had turned a milky red-gray. He entered the foyer and was greeted by a paper-mache life size replica of Mark Twain dressed in typical white three piece suit.
Seth knew the person who had created the Twain statue: Lansing native of some local notoriety, Laura Toth. By profession a photographer (weddings, graduations, portraits—still and video), she ran a lucrative business. Her hobby was dabbling in the life size paper-mache sculptures. Many notions came to mind when he thought of Laura: sex, bizarre, intrigue, sorcery, sex, ribald, courtesan, liaison, intense never-blinking green eyes, bright red page-boy-cut hair, triangular face, six foot 23-22-23 figure, fashion models' runway strut, knock-out clove perfume.
Seth had met Laura a year ago, at a Lansing art show. She had attempted, in a Ouija board kind of way, to possess him ever since. Laura said she was twenty-nine but, hanging onto her girlish figure like a kite in the wind, he thought closer to forty.
Entering Pudd'nheads through a plate-glass door, Seth heard the lilting violin version of “Night and Day” played by Jude Wisdom. Jude, a sophomore in the M.S.U. Music Department, performed at Pudd'nheads for tips and did very well. She didn't need the money. Her Ford Executive father provided her every wish. Rather, she performed because she liked to, and had a loyal following. Monday through Friday, 6:00 to 8:00 p.m., Jude wowed 'em with her renditions of Rogers and Hart, Gershwin, Cole Porter. Occasionally she dropped in a Bach, Beethoven, Schubert.
This night, as usual, against the walling of Jude's Stradivarius, the atmosphere in Pudd'nheads was muffled and mellow.
She sat on a black stool. Her black violin case open on the stage. The red velvet lining was laced with dollar bills, some fives, and a few tens.
Jude mirrored her mixed parental stock: her mother, a full blooded Sioux Indian, her father Chinese/African. Jet black hair to her waist, dark chocolate eyes with a slight Oriental fold, her skin was the color of polished mahogany. Her clothing, free and casual, was tonight a long-sleeve silver silk shirt tucked into black silk slacks. As she played, her black clogs were planted firmly on the stage floor.
She spotted Seth and smiled. S
ure of herself, giving of herself, she reminded Seth much of his sister, Natalie.
Playing her violin, swaying with the melody, she frowned at Seth as he placed a dollar in her violin case. He nodded, noticed the room full, went to the bar, took a favorite seat where he could see Jude, and ordered his usual nonalcoholic drink, ginger beer.
Jude segued into “All of Me.”
As he watched her, he remembered the night he had first met her. It was a year ago when, walking to class in a winter snow storm, he saw a green and white Mustang skid off the road into a ditch. Coming to the rescue, a female driver's beautiful ebony face beamed from a rolled down window. Her first words to him were, “Shit, look at me.” Noting that she was not hurt, he pushed, she gunned it and, making room for him by putting her violin case on the back seat, gave him a lift across campus. Smoking a Kent cigarette, she explaining that the Mustang was a gift from her father, and he would “have a cow” if there was a scratch, dent, or scrape.
Seth assured her, he had looked, the foot deep snow had saved her.
Ginger beer served in a copper mug, Seth sipped. Jude finished “All of Me” and amid light applause, she headed for Seth. He watched her approaching and she really did remind him of Natalie.
She arrived, said, “How's it going, Tru?”
“Fantastic.”
“Here's your dollar.”
He pushed it away, “Don't do that.”
She sat next to him. “You need it more than I do.”
“I will not accept that dollar … you're embarrassing me.”
Stuffing it in her shirt pocket, “Heaven forbid.”
“Thank you.”
“What ya doing?”
“Drinking ginger beer.”
“What's the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Wrong.”
“Nothing.”