Truths of the Heart (15 page)

Jude said, “I need to freshen up” and went, just past the stove,
through a peeling painted white door, to the bathroom.

Seth stepped, beyond the kitchen, to the living area and flipped on
another light. The room had two large drape-less windows and a rectangular
skylight. One side of the room was Seth’s studio—easel, palette table, paints,
turps, rags. The opposite side was dominated by an ancient wood library desk
and chair. The desk held a green shaded reading light and computer set-up. The
walls had been painted off-white and the floor was covered with cream-colored
linoleum. Silver steam heat radiators sat under the windows. On the far end sat
a sagging sofa and stuffed red chair worn through on the arms. The sofa setting
was rounded out by a rickety coffee table and two end tables. The end tables
seemed to sag under the weight of matching wrought iron yellow-shaded lamps. A
door at the end and to the side of the living room, led to Seth's bedroom. He
went there while Jude freshened up. The room was slightly larger than the
cast-iron double bed which was pushed against a wall. Next to the bed, a small
closet had a single lead pipe from which hung Seth’s pants, shirts, and a
wool-lined leather flight jacket. Shelves served as a dresser. A pair of dress
shoes sat neatly on the floor.

Seth sat on the bed, took his boots off and returned to the living room
to see Jude stretched out on the sofa. She said, “Did you ever get a phone?”

“No phone, no TV, and no radio.”

“You are not for real, my prince.” She lit up a Kent and offered him drag.

“You know how I feel about you smoking.”

“You have anything to drink?”

He went to the refrigerator, got a bottle of Upper Michigan Catawba
that he kept for guests, took a water glass out of the sink, rinsed it, and
Jude walked to and sat at the kitchen table.

He poured her a glass, opened himself a ginger beer, sat opposite her, said,
“How's the wine?”

She held the glass up to the light, “Excellent acidity, fine bouquet,
fruity aroma, good balance.” She sipped. “Exceptional body, too, like me.” She
peered over the rim of her glass, “Wanna?”

“I have to do a study for an art class. Would you model?”

“Thought you'd never ask.” She stood and quickly began unbuttoning the front
of her shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm going to model for you.”

“No No No. Button that up.”

Pulling her shirt tails out, she exposed her black bra, “Why?”

“Button that shirt up, now!”

“Do me nude.” She reached to unsnap her bra.

“Stop that, now! Or get out.”

Pouting, she began buttoning up. “Party pooper.”

“It's going to be a portrait.”

“OOOH wow, exciting.”

He went to his desk, “Come here, sit at my desk.”

She did, “This is exciting.”

“Pull your hair back.”

“You do it.”

He arranged her hair. She licked his wrist.

Satisfied with her hair, he had her cup her chin in her hands, and turn
to a three quarter profile, as if she were contemplating a thought. Then he
adjusted the desk lamp so that her face was in half shadow.

“There, don't move.”

“Oh wow, dominance, I love it.”

He took his 15x24 sketch pad, a stick of pink pastel, sat on a folding
chair and began sketching in broad strokes.

The basic outline set, he began working on the details of her facial expression.
Fifteen minutes into the sketch he stopped. The drawing was more Rachelle than
Jude.

He stood, “That's it for now.”

“Done already?”

“Yes.”

“Let's see.”

“NO.”

“Why?”

“I'm just tired.”

“Come on.”

“Okay, look.”

She did. “That's not me!”

“I know.”

“That's….” She looked into his eyes. “Oh no, it's....”

“You better go, I need to get some sleep.”

“Me too. I like the right side of the bed.”

“Bye.”

“I want to stay.”

“Okay, but you sleep on the sofa.”

“That's no fun.”

“Then go home.”

“Poop on you.”

“See you soon and be careful.”

“Hah.”

Jude left and Seth sat at his kitchen table. Like confetti flung from a
high rise building to a brisk wind, his thoughts floated to Rachelle: w
hy
this and now? I just needed some extra credit … and … damn … Jude was right,
what do you think you're going to do … ask her out … she's a Prof, she'll kick
you out of her class, flunk you … worse yet, laugh you off the face of the
earth. Maybe I should drop the class, get out before it's too late, or worse
yet, make an ass of myself … do some homework, sketch a chair, forget about
her....

Beginning a sketch of his sofa and easy chair, there was a tap at his
door.

He had an idea who it was. He went to the door, opened it and Laura,
wrapped in a black trench coat, collar turned up, her close sent potent,
brushed past him like a fashion model focused on some distant symbol. Inside,
six-one in high heels, she turned and her intense green eyes looked through
him.

He said, “Hello.”

Red lipstick smeared, black mascara thick, blue eye shadow deep, Laura dropped
her trench coat to the floor. She wore black leotards, a white T-shirt, and
silver crescent moon earrings dangled from her lobes. Thick gold bracelets
wrapped her wrists. A golf-ball size crystal hung from a gold necklace. Rings
on every finger, she fluffed her short red hair and handed Seth a brown paper
sack. He knew what it was. Her drink of preference, a bottle of Asti Spumante.

She kicked off her high heels and said thickly, “Why didn't you show up
last night?”

“I was busy.”

“Bastard.” She approached him seductively, ran her index finger across his
jaw then turned and went to his easel where the picture of Jude-turned-into-Rachelle
was.

 
She studied the painting. “Who's
this?”

“Class project, nobody in particular, figment of my imagination.”

“Better be,” she went to the bedroom.

Seth popped the effervescent wine, got a single glass and went to her. Laura,
nude, her right elbow on a pillow, her right hand propping her head, lay
stretched out on the spread. She smoked a pink Eve cigarette.

Seth handed her the glass of wine.

She took it, sipped, then said, “What are we waiting for?”

Amid w-x-y-z sex, she bit his ear lobes, clawed his back with
fingernails, poured words in flowing groans and husky whispers: “More more more
… you bastard, you … I love you … yes … we're so right for each other … I love
you madly....”

After some time, calmed, sipping, smoking a fresh Eve cigarette, Laura said,
“Have you given any more thought to moving in with me?”

“Haven't had time.”

“I've rearranged things, you know, like I showed you, you could have
the entire attic … lots of natural light up there.”

He had been to Laura's lair: a three-story Victorian house in Lansing's
Historic District. The house had become a gathering place for all night
parties, heavy metal music, and freaks. She had taken him up to the huge attic
and promised to prepare a place for him. He couldn't do that. He needed his
space, his quiet, no phones, no TV, no music no slipping in the night.

Laura, “What are you thinking?”

“Let's think about it.”

She squeezed his testicles, “What's to think?”

CHAPTER FIVE

Rachelle's first class on Tuesday—Com. 421 at 11:00 A.M.—Carl was
sleeping soundly, she eased out of bed, pulled on her white robe over white
pajamas, went downstairs and, T.S. watching, began her touch-toe calisthenics.
As she exercised, that last journal entry she made before retiring last night—
Carl,
new job, Detroit, apartment—
churned
her mind like salmon fighting to
get upstream.

Rehearsing words to deliver to Carl's sensitive ego, touch toe fifty
finished, she looked to T.S. who sat waiting at his food bowl. She was sure he
could read her mind. He meowed loudly.

“You be quiet.”

She opened a can of Fancy Feast tuna casserole, put it in his food
bowl, retrieved the Lansing State Journal from the front stoop, then readied a
special pot of regular coffee but didn't start it brewing (Carl liked his
coffee still-dripping fresh).

She prepared herself a mocha cappuccino, toasted an English muffin, spread
some cream cheese on it, was reading the Funky Winkerbean cartoon, when she
heard Carl lumbering down the spiral staircase.

In a Lions’ blue and silver sweat suit, he sat at the kitchen table,
yawned and lit a Kool. Rachelle said, “Good morning.”

“What's good about it?” He waited for her to start his coffee.

She did.

He said, “I'm sorry for being such a jerk yesterday.”

“I'm sorry for being late.”

“Good lay though, last night, huh?”

Is that what that was?
The
male ego in full plume, she thought,
strike while the poker is bent, hot,
something like that
: “Carl, I've been thinking....”

“Oh Christ, here we go.”

She purred, “Caarrrlll.”

“Okay what?”

“With you starting the Monday through Friday sports show on WJJ, in three
weeks … what did you say they were going to call it?”

“Playing for Keeps.”

“Yes, that's it, catchy, I wish I could hear it.”

“It you moved to Detroit you could.”

“I know, I know.”

“You know.”

She removed the coffee pot and filled his mug with fresh brew. “Carl … with
you announcing the weekend Lions games, this new daily sport's show, driving
back and forth … aren't you going to be, as they say in the boys' locker room,
busting your balls?” She chuckled as she set the mug in front of him. “So to
speak.”

He sipped

“Just joking. Anyway, I've been thinking, maybe it would be a good
idea, you know, for now, if you thought about leasing an apartment in Detroit,
the one you used to have at that Center was beautiful.”

Paused in mid sip, “Trying to get rid of me, huh.”

Stroking his back, “Honey … driving back and forth, it's 90 miles one way
… I'd worry all the time.”

“I was hoping you would reconsider, move to Detroit.”

“Carl, you know I can't do that, not now, I have a contract with the

 
University, we've been over
that....”

“Screw that University, they don't own you.”

That's interesting.
“It
just seems to make eminent sense. I could drive to Detroit on home-game
weekends … absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

After a half hour of playing touchdown ego, Rachelle persuaded Carl they
were adults and, with what surely would be Herculean demands at WJJ—his on-air
shift, sales calls, promotions, not to mention the regular season Lions
games—common sense dictated he get a temporary address in Detroit.

Seeing him weaken, she said, “When this current academic year is over, next
spring, we can explore some Detroit real estate.”

He extended his right hand, “Shake on it.”

She hesitated, crossed her left-hand fingers behind her back, and
shook. Carl beamed like he had completed a short football pass, “If you still
want to teach, we can get you a job at Wayne State. Dent has some contacts
there, I know the coach.”

She looked at T.S. and silently said,
They just don't understand.

T.S. yawned and looked away as if to say,
You're incorrigible.

Rachelle said, “We'll see.”

Carl, sipping coffee, said, “I'll call Dent, I could stay with him for
a few days. He's bunking on his yacht, I can look around for an apartment.”

“Yes, yes, excellent idea. Is Mr. Dent's divorce going through, okay?”

“I guess, Penny wants the house, alimony, a ton.”

“Be careful of that Candy lady friend of Mr. Dent.”

“I think that's history.”

“Oh, I thought they were getting married?”

“I think Dent caught her screwing around.”

“That's a switch.”

CHAPTER SIX

Tuesday was a maze of classes, Seth's shift at da Vinci's went like a
fast-food lunch. The apparition named Rachelle he had witnessed Monday
afternoon killed his thoughts, Laura's “I've-prepared-a-place-for-you” a
nagging whisper in his ear, Wednesday morning's wee hours progressed like Billy
Graham says hell will pass for gluttons, liars, and fornicators. Seth, glad to
be up and dressed, looked forward to Com. 501. He would analyze this Zannes
apparition–was she real or some other worldly phenomena, alien encounter at the
corner of Sagittarius and the Milky Way, or just another random meeting at
First Street and Elm.