Truths of the Heart (18 page)

“My cat, T. S. Eliot.”

Sitting, “Your cats' name is T.S. Eliot?”

“No less.”

“Does he write poetry?”

“Eats it.”

Their eyes met in light laughter. Seth, as in a closet, hearing her
words, she outside yet inside with him, subtle glances, wondering, catching the
topaz light of her eyes, wanting to reach out and....

She said, “So, have you decided what to do for a project?”

Her fragrance killing him, he said, “I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I mean, yes, I have.”

“What is it?”

He paused then said, “It sounds presumptuous but I've been thinking of
a novel.”

“Why would it be presumptuous, it's a class project. A short novel,
novella perhaps. Do you have anything written, a synopsis?” She got up and
walked to a white coffee maker on a table beside her desk and poured a cup of
coffee.

Lost in her graceful movement he heard her say, “Do you?”

“What?”

“Have anything written?”

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“I have some notes, a story idea.”

She held up the coffee pot, “Would you like some?”

“Please, black.”

She poured another cup, returned, handed him a white mug steaming with coffee
and sat, “Did you bring your notes with you?”

Looking into her eyes, he remembered the time, as a six year old, he
stuck a fork handle in an electrical outlet. Sparks flying, he couldn't let go.
This was that.

Sipping, she said again, “Do you have the notes with you?”

I love you.
“Yes.”

“Did you bring them?”

“Yes.”

“Did you want me to read them?”

He took from his sketch pad the page that he had printed last night.

She took it and read, paused, looked at him, he felt something click.
She went back to the page and read again.

He watched her eyes moving across the words.
What eyes
.

Thinking, rereading, she sipped coffee.

What lips
.

Time passed like a water facet dripping in the night.

She looked up at him.

She knows what it’s about
….

“Well, that sound's interesting. I like it. Why don't you develop it,
let me take another look after you've worked on it a bit more, could be a good
beginning, get some flesh on it.”

Don't say flesh.
“I
will.”

Her lips parted in a smile—perfect teeth, perfect gums—he glanced to
her eyes, perfect eyes that were looking into him. He could stay there forever.

How can this be? Why is this?
He didn't want to leave,
make something up,
“But you know, I
have this gnawing fear.”

“Oh, what's that?”

“A dream, I'm walking through a crowded airport and, holes in my pockets,
gold coins are dropping all over the floor. I reach to pick them up and they
are covered by earth and I dig them up and there is more and more coins
uncovered. Millions of dollars but people walk around me, avoiding me, even
with all the money I'm trying to give away.”

“I'm not a dream expert, but that sounds like possibly, fear of
rejection, not uncommon for artists.”

Keep her talking, make something up
: “What I fear more is, how does one know if one’s art is really good,
lasting. I mean, how do you know … I mean, how do you know?”

“How do you know your paintings are good?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you'll show me sometime.”

Let’s go to my place now.
“When?”

“Bring some in, our next meeting.”

Blew that one.

She said, “You're an artist, you have fear, we all do, but perhaps
artists more so, sensitivity.”

“You think?”

“You care. Keep that. Never lose it. Develop your ideas … this story …
I think you have something, say it in your own words, true to yourself. If
you're not satisfied, change it, revise, revise, but be true to yourself.”

You're killing me.

She continued, “There will always be moments of doubt and dread and a
loss of confidence, rejection, but be determined. Search for the truth, wherever
it leads.”

I don't need to search any more.
A spike of chill went through his brain, neck, back, toes.
Keep the
conversation going.
“What about the length?”

“Length is relative.”

He glanced to her eyes.
Yep. Smiling.

She tugged an ear lobe, “Remember, Thoreau, 'short book but it took a long
time to make it short'. Speaking of length, look at the time … I have a faculty
meeting at 11:00.”

Getting up, moving to her desk, “See you in class next Monday, work on that
story, I think you might have something there.”

He stood. “I … I....”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if....”

“Yes?”

“Nothing, I'll work on the story, thanks.”

“And don't forget, John Gardner.”

“I won't.” He left.

At her window, she looked out across the Red Cedar and thought,
isn't
that interesting.

Later that afternoon, driving home, Rachelle found herself thinking of Seth
Trudow more than she should.

CHAPTER TEN

After Rachelle had convinced Carl, at least until the end of spring semester,
that finding a Detroit apartment was the only sane thing to do, Carl went to
Detroit. He saw Dent, explained the situation, bunked in on Touchdown for a few
days. But Dent, with current live-in Donna, was not keen on Carl living there
permanently. After a week, Carl leased a furnished apartment in Detroit's River
Front Towers. The fifth floor one bedroom unit had a nice view across the
Detroit River of Windsor, Canada. The lease came with covered parking. Carl
insisted on an end slot, paid extra, to protect his BMW from scratches in the
night. WJJ within minutes, Tommi's High Five blocks away, Carl settled into his
new digs with an eye to the calendar and a finger on Rachelle's speed-dial
phone number.

In and out of Detroit for Lions away games, his weekday radio show
Playing
for Keeps
, had debuted September 16, 3-6 P.M. Carl made client sales calls
in the morning hours, did his show in the afternoons, and in the evenings dined
at one or two favorite restaurants. After dinner he usually found himself at
Tommi Gilmour's High Five. He frequently ran into Dent who, on more than one
occasion, had to “run to the upstairs apartment” with Tommi to “do some
financial advising.” On the Dent evenings, Carl usually ended up on Touchdown
in a friend of Donna's lap. Other nights, Tommi Gilmour arranged for High Five
female staffers to escort Carl home.

Immersed in work and play, Carl nevertheless wondered, at least once an
hour, what his living East Lansing trophy was up too. A truism he held: Once a trophy
is earned, received, placed on a shelf, it can never be taken back. When he
talked to Rachelle on the telephone, Carl reminded her regularly, as soon as
the academic year was over, she would be moving to Detroit.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Four weeks into Carl's move to Detroit, he had been on the road every weekend
announcing Detroit football for WJJ. This coming Sunday, September 28, would be
the first game at home. Rachelle on notice, Carl called to remind her, as they
had agreed, that when he was not on the road, she would come to Detroit for the
weekend.

Oh but she couldn't, she had been invited to a reception being given by
the M.S.U. President, Dr. Susan Weber. The reception, Saturday night, 7:00 P.M.,
at Weber's campus residence, was to meet and welcome visiting guest-lecturer,
famous author, Frank Winslow Blane. Known for his hard-hitting detective
stories, raw dialogue, and tongue in cheek style, his writing was acclaimed in
literary circles as unique. He had won Delaware's Pink Pear writing award two
years running.

Said Carl, “That’s bull shit, you're coming here.”

“I don't think so.”

“You come here or else.”

“Whatever, I'm going to the reception.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You'll never see me again.”

“I'm going.”

“Fuck you.” CLICK.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Saturday,
September 27

Fall chill and light rain/fog mist around Lake Lansing, Rachelle
readied herself to go to the Frank Winslow Blane reception. Combing her hair,
she heard someone downstairs. She became a little freighted when T.S. scooted
under the bed. She tiptoed toward the railing that overlooked the great room
below and saw, walking toward the bottom of the spiral stairs, Carl.

He looked up, “I decided to go to the reception.”

She went back to the bedroom.

In a moment he entered, she said, “Don't you have a game tomorrow?”

“I'll leave early in the morning.”

She looked him over. “You better get dressed. Coat and tie.”

Silently, Rachelle pinned her hair back behind her ears with tiny
silver fish barrettes and finished dressing—white ankle length cotton dress,
half inch white heels.

Mumbling profanities, Carl changed to a camel sports jacket, white turtleneck
sweater, gray slacks, and black loafers.

Downstairs, they donned matching tan trench coats and, upon leaving,
Rachelle told T.S. to behave.

Carl driving his BMW, said, “This better be good.”

Rachelle, concerned that Carl be made aware of Blane's fame, explained:
“Blane has written ten detective novels, ever read him?”

“No.”

“They feature a tough-lady private detective, Boolean Traveler.”

“That's nice.”

“His latest is
Honey Comes Cheap,
about a psychopath named T.
Cum Riley.”

“Wonderful.”

“In the remote woods of northern Vermont, Riley hangs his female
victims upside down in the basement of his cabin. Covers them with honey, licks
them clean, then kills them. Thirteen female bodies found in the city dump,
enter Boolean Traveler and
Honey Comes Cheap
begins.”

”You read that shit?”

“Escape, his characters are so real.”

Carl paused, said, “We could be in Detroit, having a nice dinner.”

“
Honey Comes Cheap
has been on the Times' best seller list for
the last ten weeks, is being made into an HBO Movie, and is nominated by Nate's
Book Club for its book of the year award.”

“I can't wait.”

Entered the President Weber's residence, fifty or so people milled
around, munching, sipping, conversing. Rachelle and Carl were greeted by President
Weber: “Rachelle, how nice to see you … and this must be the famous Carl
Bostich.”

Rachelle said, “Yes.”

Weber offered to shake and Carl did. She said, “We've heard so much about
you, Carl. My husband always turns down the TV sound to listen to you and Corky
on the radio.”

“What about you?” Carl said.

Weber smiled, “You must get something to eat, drinks, then, go meet Blane.”
She nodded toward a large inner room with a brick fireplace flicking warm licks
of yellow and blue flame. To the right of the white mantel stood Blane. A small
group seemed to be hanging on his every word.

“Isn't he magnetic,” said Weber. “Go hang your coats in there.” She pointed
to a side room. “Eat, drink is over there, I have to run.” She stepped to the
door to greet new arrivals.

Carl deposited his and Rachelle's coat in the side room.

Rachelle, drawing attention like red neon in the night, Herb Smith, a fellow
professor, walked up with a lascivious smile on his craggy face. “Hi there,
gorgeous.”

Carl, returning from the coat drop, frowned down at Herb. Herb left.

Rachelle whispered, “Carl, don't be an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one.”

They looked around.

To one side, a table featured an assortment of spring rolls and quiche
in six variations: spinach, cheese, broccoli, cauliflower, beets, and zucchini.
For dessert there was oatmeal, alfalfa, and soy drop cookies. A large bowl of
pink punch sat in the middle of the table. Beside the bowl a sign: SAVE THE ANIMALS.

To the other side was a portable hotel-looking bar behind which stood a
tall blonde female in white shirt, red vest, and black bow tie. She served
Michigan Creek wine (red or white) and sherry.