Truths of the Heart (16 page)

Arriving a few minutes early at the Com. 501 classroom, Seth sat in the
same seat he had set in first day of class, back row by the window. After five
minutes, fellow students seated, Zannes entered.

Her face pale, silver barrettes secured her hair which was combed
straight back from her forehead. She was dressed in a black denim pant suit and
white blouse with just enough cleavage revealed to inspire a sketch.

Damn! This creature is true. I would die for her, right now, tonight, tomorrow,
whenever.

Sketching her, he noted a sad distance in her eyes and she began, with effort,
it seemed to him, to be upbeat: “So, one person dropped the class. Not bad, I
usually get three or four on the first go around.” She smiled. “I see our senior
is still with us.”

All eyes on Seth, he nodded.

Rachelle looked over the class, “So here we are, now thirteen. Hope
that number doesn't portend anything ominous.”

She walked to the window nearest Seth, looked out for a moment, then turned,
leaned back against the sill and smiled down at him.

He mouthed a whisper, “Why so blue?”

“What?”

He shrugged nothing.

She glanced at his sketch pad then looked over the class, “Before we
start on Wolfe, any questions?”

Her spring-rain fragrance killing him, Seth looked and saw it—
Yep, a
rock the size of Gibraltar on her left ring-finger, Jude Jude Jude.

A student’s hand went up. “Do you have to be a little crazy to be a writer?”

“Men do, women cope.”

Laughter.

Student: “So, the answer is yes.”

“Probably.”

Laughter.

Student: “I was wondering what communication theory you believe, follow.”

“Deconstructionist, modified.”

“And what is that?”

“Controlled insanity.”

Laughter.

As she talked, walked back and forth Seth noticed that she gestured
with her hands as if words were clay and she was molding ideas. In caught
glances, he said to her silently,
you can't be real, I'm dreaming this
.

Studying her, reciting mental notes, he moved to sketch her face:
high
cheekbones, shadow of a dimple, round chin about the size of a plum, skin the
color of a ripe Bartlett pear; upper lip resembling the extended wings of a
bird in flight; lower lip full and moist; tear drop nostrils, nose slightly
enlarged in the middle but nice. Natural brows to accent her regal forehead.
Eyes as by a master craftsman flawlessly spaced in the oval of her head, topaz
irises, natural eye lashes, a touch of peach fuzz at her ear lobes.

Absorbed, he sketched detail of her hair,
tapering back around her
ears
. He imagined her hair free, flowing around her face, with streaks of
light brown, full, texture of spun gold.

Her essence penetrating into him like whiskey fermenting in charred oak
barrels, he worked while he listened to her lecturing:

“...throwing a bucket of paint at a wall creates something—a paint splattered
wall. But it is not art. Anybody can do it. C.K. Chesterton expressed it best,
'Art, not seen in the animal world, is the signature of the human being'.”

She paced at the front of the room, “I think it has something to do
with creating something from nothing. Music, literature, colors on a canvas, a
sculpture … and, if what you create is beautiful, not something that a simian
could do, it is rare.”

Student: “Simian?”

She stopped pacing, “Ape.”

Laughter.

Student: “Isn't beauty in the eye of the beholder?”

“Depends what you mean by the beholder.”

“I don't understand.”

“Well, a goat can be a beholder, now can't it?”

Laughter.

Blah blah blah, I know beauty when I see it and you are the most
beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on.

Seth sketched her lips as she was saying, “So one of our challenges
here is to seek the truth through the written word … characters in situations
where they might stumble, soar, love. Not a forced truth by you the author, but
something found by a character you have created.”

Seth thought:
What created you?

He sketched her hands—open, pointing, never a fist. He imagined the
joints and muscle and the suppleness of her fingers and how she used her index
to punctuate thoughts: “A few of my colleagues in the Communication Department
talk about the communication process in terms of processing human symbols,
finding structure in the chaos.”

Seth worked on her delicate upper eye lids.

Rachelle: “In their view human beings are machines that process bits of
information.”

Seth filled in the smooth flow of her neck into her blouse, highlighted
the slight pointed lift of her breasts. He imagined them and paused to study
her in full, taking her in like a cool glass of water

Rachelle looked at him then glanced away, “In sum, communication science
relies on rules that people agree upon to accomplish whatever it is they are
trying to get done to, for, or with one another.”

She tilted her head just so and folded her arms and continued: “Science
is unique and valued because of its ‘prove it' perspective. If others cannot
verify a finding, it's more or less hearsay.”

You're not hearsay.
Seth
sketched the tip of her slightly pointed nose.

Rachelle: “On the other hand, we are here to study the
art
of communication
… seeking truths through the written word.”

Seth caught her eye. It was the damndest thing he ever felt. Weak, and yet
strong enough to lift the room. She smiled at him.

He skipped a beat in time.

She held up a piece of chalk. “Collectively we call this c-h-a-l-k.
When we see it, talk about it, write about it, we know what we are talking
about.”

I know what I'm talking about
.

Rachelle: “On the other hand, we can agree on how to spell love but
when we try to express the notion in words it becomes more difficult. For
example, what do you think Keats meant in his “Ode on a Grecian Urn: ‘beauty,
truth, is all you need to know’?”

You!

“Seth alluded to it in our opening session when he talked about a
voice.”

She looked at him. “Tell us again Seth, when you hear that voice.”

Snicker. Chuckle. Snort.

Seth: “You mean that sunset thing?”

“Yes.”

“When I see a sunset, the voice says, 'Try this one … and I paint the sunset
… but when finished, I have only a painting. Even less so when you try to
describe a sunset with words. No matter the final form, we have only a representation
of the real thing.”

Rachelle said, “I think that says it. It's about creativity,
imagination, something out of nothing. Now, let's get to Wolfe's
The Far and
the Near
. Anybody have any thoughts?”

The discussion began and Seth detected again, beneath the alive, alert,
openness, a sadness in Rachelle.

Student: “Wolfe is saying how things, viewed from a distance, sometime look
rosy but when experienced up close they may be ugly. Kind of like the grass
seems greener over the fence.”

As they talked, discussed, Seth sketching Rachelle, she said to him,
“And what does our senior think?”

He froze.

She smiled, waiting.

“I didn't read it.”

Rachelle looked at her watch. “Well, we never did get to John Gardner, and
we don't have time to start today.” She looked at Seth. “We'll start next
session with an overview of Gardner by Mr. Trudow.”

He smiled.

“Any questions?”

Back row Rose, “On the writing assignment, I wanted to do a collection
of poetry.”

“Put it in a proposal, let's look at it. Anything else?” She paused.
Nothing.

“Okay, before we leave, let's go ahead and make first appointments to
discuss your projects. First come first served.”

Seth sat back and watched the rush to her desk.

Appointment made, everyone gone, Rachelle looked to him, said, “And?”

He went to her.

She said, “Hi there.”

“Sorry about Wolfe....”

“Don't worry about it.”

“I was wondering if … what's left, you know, appointment time, for the project
thing?”

“What's good for you?”

You.
“Anytime.”

“Let's see, how would tomorrow be, say....”

“I work at da Vinci's, Tuesday, Thursday, 3:00 to 7:00.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“I love that place, what do you do there?”

“Whatever they want.”

She smiled, “My father was an artist.”

A sparkle in his eye, “I'd like to see his work.”

“I have some in my office, when you come by, how about tomorrow morning,
10:00 A.M.”

“Works for me.”

“Ten it is.”

“We just talk, or....”

She tilted her head, “Do you have something in mind?”

Do I
. “For the
project?”

“Yes, some idea, what you will be working on.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Put it on paper,” she raised an eyebrow, “don't you think?”

“Oh, yes, sure, okay, may I walk you to your next class?”

“I'm just down the hall.” She lied.

“Okay, see you next class.”

“I hope before that … tomorrow morning, right?”

“What?”

“Next class is Monday.”

“Right....”

“John Gardner.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Seth's 5:00 P.M. “Art History” class over, he packed up and headed for
Pudd'nheads. Jude's insight into everything would focus his search for a Com.
501 project.

Entering Pudd’nheads, he noticed that tonight Jude was dressed in a buckskin
jacket with long fringes along the arms, matching knee length dress, and ankle-high
suede moccasins.

Her violin wailed, “I Can't Get Started With You.”

He nodded to her, put a dollar in her violin case, sat where he always sat,
and ordered a Ginger Beer. Watching Jude, he doodled a sketch of her on a white
cocktail napkin.

Finished with her number, mild applause, Jude strolled over and sat beside
Seth. “What's up, Tru?”

Before he could answer, she saw the sketch. “Hey, I want that, suitable
for framing, I knew you loved me.”

“Later.”

“Ooooh.”

He frowned, “Nuts.”

“What?”

“The apparition.”

“Why did I not know that?”

“It's insane.”

“Sigh … I know of what you speak, I have this person, older, an artist,
would die for, paint my belly button purple for, eat glass for, but alas, he
ignores me like I was a baby sister, sitter, setter whatever.”

“You ever have those times, not so good time, when you feel it's all a waste
of time?”

“Never.”

“I mean when you fear something will never happen.”

“Not on my worst day.”

He sipped some ginger beer, then said, “I have to come up with
something special for a Com. 501 project.”

“You give me a pain in the head.”

“Something different.”

“Okay, pain in the ass.”

“Unique.”

“Cut off an ear, give it to her in a box.”

“Not funny. This has to be something spectacular special, good.”

“Seth, do you know to whom your apparition is married?”

“No.”

“I mean are you on this planet, my artistic prince, or what?”

“I try not to be.”

“Carl Bostich … name ring a bell?”

He remembered it, first day of class, the comment about the name being
in parentheses on the chalk board. “No.”

“For shame, my prince doesn't know Bostich is a football icon.”

“I hate football.”

“None the less, my prince, Mr. Carl Bostich, the former Detroit Lions quarterback,
is now the announcer for the Detroit Lions' football games, has his own radio
show in Detroit.”

“You been playing Colombo again.”

“Somebody has to watch out for you … he played for the Lions until he
got his arm smashed up couple years ago.”

“So why am I getting this lesson in sports trivia.”

“I just told you, dumbo, your apparition is married to him!”