Truths of the Heart (20 page)

As he worked, as he often did, he talked aloud: “Straining to see,
eager to know, wondering this now, is it reality or a grand show put on by the
grandest of grand no shows.”

Talking to himself, he knew he painted to suppress his maddening desire
for Rachelle.

“This apparition, this truth doesn't go away like a simple bout with
swine flu. It's some indwelling thing that becomes a part of your breathing,
thinking. Where did she come from, all that beauty is not an accident … this
gut wrenching craving for her, in my mind, driving me nuts. What is that, the
need to ... there has to be more to this than a roll in the grass. Damn!

“And the little notes from her on my assignments, good, keep working, better,
excellent! Try again. What does this mean? Think about this in first person.
What is he thinking here? Try this this way. Watch your spelling. Nice touch. I
like this.

“And you trying to read volumes of hidden meanings into the comments. Did
she see feel for me when she wrote the notes? Why don't you just go to her and
tell her how you feel.”

His thoughts soared on that and then, as always, the bottom fell out. “Damn,
damn, damn, I'm going to drop out, re-up in the Air Force. I can't stand it.
Blah blah blah … she's changed, I feel her distancing herself … like she's
running from something … the first time I saw her I felt like ... I don't know,
I sensed something … but now … she's a cold slab … nothing … you tell me … is
it me or … damn! Something is smothering her, that spark I sensed first day of
class seems like a thousand years ago, is gone. At first, when I smiled at her
she smiled back. But now she looks away, distant, doesn’t know me. Probably
thinks I'm a voyeur fool ... she might be right. Did I only imagine there was
something there?”

As he worked on sketching in the barn. “I skip class to see if she
noticed. Nothing. I'm an empty chair. I can't bear to look at her, hear her,
smell her, waiting for a glance like a lap dog waiting for a stroke, ignoring
me … it drives me nuts, and then, the dreams, the insane dreams.”

Painting, he recalled two of the more recurring dreams:

Rachelle steps from her sea shell into his arms and she is wet and they
make love on the pearl of her sea shell and the shell closes around them and
they are in a heavenly cocoon of softness and then some giant opens the shell
and the giant, smacking his lips, has a white napkin tucked under his chin and
a big smile on his face.

Another:

He looks at a painting of Rachelle's mother. The painting is on an
easel next to a casket. When he steps to the casket he sees, wearing a white
wedding dress, Rachelle. Her face waxed hard, her eyes closed, hands crossed
over her stomach, she clutches a dozen wilted roses.

Another:

Rachelle and he walk among ancient ruins. She, dressed in a white
flowing dress, her hair touched by a light breeze, they hold hands and are
imbued with each other's thoughts.

“It's maddening.”

He brushed thick strokes of titanium white in the blue of his
painting’s sky. “I have never touched her, except to shake hands, yet she
sticks in me like an addiction. If that creation story were so, I can imagine
how Adam must have felt, when he saw, picking fruit, a nude Eve. And when she
offered him a bite, he took and ate. If Rachelle offered me a bite of apple,
knowing that history would be damned forever, I'd eat the whole damn tree, bark
and all, everything, bite, bite, bite, eat it, core skin and everything, chomp,
chomp, chomp.”

Jabbing the canvas with a brush, “But blah blah. It is not to be. Jude was
right. Dear Jude. I fear for her … she's so talented, beautiful, and there are
so many hick pickers out there.”

He wiped sweat from his face then, work on the oak tree's gnarled
trunk, finished, and he paused to snack and drink some water, then continued in
a flurry of inspiration.

Time passed and, pleased with the landscape he had painted, the sun setting,
the day still warm, he packed up and headed home. At his apartment, his sweater
and shoes removed, a glass of milk and peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich
consumed, having fallen asleep on the sofa, Seth awoke to a tapping at his
door.

It was Laura. She had on her familiar trench coat, slightly open, underneath
she wore a red T-shirt, tight fitting designer jeans, and black high heel
shoes. Clove scent strong, entering, she handed him the customary brown paper
bag, said, “You look like you've been sleeping.”

“I've been working … have some class work to do.”

She let her coat fall to the floor, “I'm going to have a key made so I
don't wake you.”

Bet on it.
Yawning,
he went back to the sofa.

“Let's see what you've been working on.”

“A landscape....”

She kicked off her shoes. “First I'd like a glass of Asti.”

He opened the bottle and poured her a glass.

She lit a chartreuse Eve cigarette and studied the wet landscape
painting he had just finished. “Nice.”

“Thank you.” He handed her the glass of wine.

She began studying, scattered around, the many sketches of the woman she
did not know was Rachelle. “Who is this bitch?”

“It's no one in particular, just studies.”

She went to a roughed in oil painting of the same woman, on another of Seth's
easel, and studied it.

After a moment, she said, “You would never lie to me darling, would you?”

“Never.”

Pulling her T-shirt off, “I want you to paint me.” She unzipped her
jeans, pushed them to the floor, and stepped free. “Pretend my body is your
canvas.” She too k a one inch brush, smeared some paint from his palette on her
stomach, and held the brush out to him.

“I'm not going to paint on you, you're nuts.”

In a sweeping movement she swept the sketches of Rachelle to the floor.
“Cute, real cute.”

Moving quickly, she punched a hole in the oil that resembled the
sketches.

“Get out.”

She began laughing hysterically.

He sat on the sofa, “Laura, I want you to leave.”

She laughed loudly, got on her knees, barked, crawled to him, sat on
his lap, bit his ear. “You're mine, Trudow, mine, forever.”

She moved to unzip his fly.

“No.”

“You don't understand, I want you now or I'll kill you.” She put the
fingers of her left hand around his throat and with her right hand stoked his
groin. “I've divined it.”

He pushed her away, “I'm serious, when you get like this, not only do I
not love you, I don't even like you.”

She stroked him and purred, “Don't you know that love is more dangerous
than hate? People suffer in the name of love, then they kill. In hate you can
skip the suffering, there's only the killing part.”

He pushed her off him. “Go home.”

“Bastard,” she hissed, lashed out with extended fingernails and
scratched his neck.

He went to the front door and opened it. “Laura, you're looking for a
piece of some lost puzzle and I'm not it. Please leave.”

She laughed, went into the bedroom, and called, “You're mine Trudow, forever.”

He sat at the kitchen table and thought,
Now what are you going to
do? She thinks she has special powers over you. You should have seen it. What
scares me most, I think there is a side of me that likes her kinky stuff. What
is that stench floating around the home of humanity? You are so naive, Trudow.

He felt a presence and looked. Laura, nude, stood staring at him.

He walked past her and started to put his shoes on. “I'm going out for
a walk, when I get back, I want you gone.” He pulled his sweater on and looked
at Laura.

She held a kitchen knife in her hand.

PART III

CHAPTER ONE

January

The Bostich's Christmas and New Year holidays a series of standoffs,
the NFL playoffs in full swing, the Super Bowl just weeks away, Carl was back
in Detroit. Upon arrival at WJJ for his afternoon show, he found an interesting
message. It was a “please call” from none other than High Five club owner, Tommi
Gilmour. He called her. She invited him, this very night, to dinner at the High
Five. The High Five limo would pick him up.

“When's a good time?” She said,

“My show's over at 6:00, how's 6:30?”

“Fab, my driver, Gus, will be there, 6:30 sharp.”

Radio show over, Carl tidied up in the men's room and went to the WJJ lobby.
Gus was waiting.

Carl said, “Hi Gus.”

“Yes sir.”

Carl remembered Gus. He resembled a frosted Classic Coke bottle—white crew
cut hair, red turtleneck sweater, black suit, black leather gloves. His
close-set beady brown eyes seemed to be sending messages to invisible aliens.

Carl, dressed in a maroon sports jacket, white turtleneck, and camel overcoat,
followed Gus to, parked curbside, the familiar High Five limo.

Carl inside, his door closed, Gus gripped the limo's steering wheel
like it might run away. Carl relaxed in the back seat, they were off, and Carl
pressed Rachelle's cell phone number.

She answered flatly, “Hello.”.

He spoke like everything was normal, “Hi babe, what's going on?”

“I think there's a new Middle East peace initiative under way.”

“What's that mean?”

“I was thinking of us.”

After a few second of contemplation, Carl said, “Guess what?”

“What?”

“Tommi Gilmour invited me to her joint for dinner.”

Not impressed, “My. Is Dent going too?”

“Didn't ask, don't know.”

“Too bad.”

“What's a matter?”

“Not a thing.”

“You sound, funny.”

“Funny as in what?”

“Funny.”

“Oh, that funny.”

“Cold there?”

“Seen worse.”

“See you Friday night.”

“I must tell you, I'm going to be busy most of the weekend, finals,
grades, getting ready for spring semester.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I'm just telling you, that's all, so you'll know. I won't be home most
of the time.”

“Fuck you.”

“Me too, you.”

CLICK.

Gus pulled the limo into the High Five's black topped parking lot that spread
out around the two story establishment like chocolate frosting on a flat
one-layer cake. He drove to the side of the building, pulled up to a wide brown
garage door, and stopped. A security camera above the door scanned the limo then
the door yawned opened. Gus drove in and stopped beside a silver Rolls-Royce.
He told Carl to wait, got out, pressed a buzzer beside a back door, looked into
another camera, spoke briefly, and a lock buzzed opened. He motioned for Carl
to come on.

Carl got out of the limo and walked to where Gus stood at the opened door.
Gus nodded for him to enter. He did, the door closed behind him and he looked
up a long narrow staircase.

At the top, thirty steps away, Tommi stood. Her hair bright red
tonight, her green ankle-length dress sparkled. She held a silver cigarette
holder between left index and middle finger. In the holder a cigarette
smoldered. She called down, “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Carl started up the stars. Half way he noticed a dank body odor. He mumbled,
“Place smells like a cat house.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, long set of steps.”

Arrived at the top, Carl looked at Tommi's glistening red lips. She
flashed a broad smile, took a puff and, exhaling, said with a husky accent,
“Well hi there, Mr. Carl.” She kissed him on the cheek, “So sweet of you to
come.”

Carl took a deep breath, “Thank you.”

“Don't tell me you're winded already.”

“Never.”

“Stinker. This way.” She started down a long white carpeted hallway.

Following, Carl saw that she wore gold earrings that looked to him like
some fried appetizer. Gold bracelets dangling from both wrists, he looked down,
past her skinny hips, and noted her green four inch spike heels. He also
noticed she walked like a bowlegged half-back.

His shoes sinking into white wall to wall carpeting, he surveyed in passing
the many gold framed oil paintings adorning red-on-mocha tapestry walls. He
said to her back, “Nice digs.”

“Well thank you Carl, let me show you around.”

In and around ornate gold leaf furniture, Carl was presented Tommi's lavish
layout: the white carpet and red-on-mocha tapestry featured throughout, a guest
room with a double bed, private bath, and mirrored walls and ceiling. Tommi's
master suite was equipped with a round bed set on a raised stage. Above the
bed, like a canopy, hung a large heart-shaped mirror. Next door, an SUV-sized
chrome desk accented Tommi's walnut-paneled office. Video monitors with views
of various High Five location, faced the desk. A sauna and exercise room
adjoined the office. From there they proceeded to the custom designed chef's
kitchen that was nuzzled up to a formal dining room. The dining room had a
walnut table with seating for twelve. And, next to the dinning room, a private
elevator transported Tommi and friends to and from the High Five restaurant
below.