Truths of the Heart (27 page)

In a trance-like stare she listened but didn't seem to hear. He
repeated everything.

She left quietly.

PART V

CHAPTER ONE

Friday, April 23

Two weeks before the end of the spring semester, Easter break coming up,
Rachelle stewed in a quagmire of indecision. Divorce lawyer Sam Hunt wanted to
skip counseling, go for Carl's jugular. But soft touch Z preferred civility.

Stewing, she thought:
Houghton Lake, alone, a long weekend, sail Esther
II, accomplish some final course grading, think everything Carl through.

“Whataya think, T.S.?”

He stared at her.

“That's what I thought.” She called Larry's Marina and instructed them
to get
Esther II
out of storage, ready for the summer.

As she packed to leave, Carl showed up.

It was a different cyborg-ish Carl that had evolved: hair dyed a
ghostly white, pulled into a small pigtail, van dyke beard the same color,
cold, distant swamp water green eyes brooding, lost, he had to talk to her.

She let him in.

He saw her suitcase in the kitchen.

“Where you going?”

“Houghton Lake.”

“I'll go with you.”

“I don't think that would be a good idea.”

“Why?”

“Carl.”

He began a litany, his arm killing him more than ever, he had been
taking double doses of every pain killer known to science. His stomach was
constantly upset and his bowels, “You wouldn't believe it, a rock.”

Then, touchingly, he presented Rachelle a wooden box with, on a gold

plaque, an
engraving: CAPTAIN RACHELLE ZANNES BOSTICH

She opened the box and looked at a solid brass sextant. On knees, Carl
apologized for his transgressions. Life had not been fair.

He rambled—on top of all his ailments, he was sick with worry about
upcoming Senate hearings. WJJ management was anxious about bad press. On top of
that, the Lions had suspended, pending the outcome of the hearings, his
announcing contract.

Touched but detecting phoniness, Rachelle said, “What Senate Hearings?”

“Horse shit stuff, it'll be showing up in the press, gambling, NFL,
don't believe any of it, lawyers, politicians trying to get air time,
headlines, reelected.”

“I'm not following you.”

“That Senator Adaven has a bug up his ass. Thinks NFL games are being fixed.”

“Why would he think that?”

“That Tommi Gilmour was a creep faggot.”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“Gilmour was a guy!”

“I'm getting confused.”

“What exactly do you not understand, Professor?”

“Watch it.”

“Sorry.”

“What does Tommi Gilmour have to do with it?”

He looked at her sadly. “Dent.”

She expressed regret at the accidental death of Dent.

Carl snarled like all his miseries had suddenly disappeared, “Hah, accident.”

“What's that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“The plot thickens. And?”

“Dent might have been on the take.”

“You serious?”

“Yep.” He lit a Kool King.

Rachelle thought,
Slick Dent. I had a feeling about him. What a
phony baloney. Oh Kim you are so lucky to have someone like Timothy.
“And
what does this have to do with you, may I ask?”

“I'm an announcer, for an NFL team, remember, the Detroit Lions, knew both
the, quote unquote, men in question, Tommi and Dent … dah.”

“Don't press your luck.”

“I'm sorry,” and he rambled: Senate hearings coming up, week after
next, he had taken a week off to get rested. Looking at her bags, he humbled
his voice even more and repeated his offer to drive her to Houghton Lake, they
could get to know each another all over again.

Seeing a flunked freshman in need of a passing grade, once again her Pisces
underpinnings flushed. She had not been the perfect wife, “Okay.”

****

Just after noon, the day sparkling with sunshine, top down, Carl
driving his BMW, his light blue windbreaker flapped in the breeze. Passenger
side Rachelle wore a white jacket over a white shirt and a green silk scarf
tied under her chin. T.S. Eliot, his green M.S.U. wind breaker flapping,
snuggled in her lap.

BMW speedometer reading 85 MPH, radar rapper on, the radio blared a Detroit
Tiger baseball game.

Rachelle called over the rush, “You're going to get a ticket.”

A little past three P.M., Carl pulled into the drive of the Houghton
Lake cottage. The packed gravel driveway, long and winding, led through
towering pines and a dense undergrowth of giant rhododendron and evergreen
shrubs.

Every time she went there, Rachelle recalled her father had designed
the property for seclusion and privacy, wanted it that way, was where he loved
to get away from what he called,
the hammer
of living.

The cottage—two bedrooms, a baths, large kitchen/dining area, small
sunroom—was built of mortar and stone and nestled under a grove of pines. It
sat twenty feet from the shoreline of Houghton Lake. A screen enclosed back
porch overlooked the lake. A narrow wooden pier extended fifty feet out into
the water.

Soon Esther II will be docked there
, Rachelle thought.

Stopped at the end of the drive, this the first trip since their
December flap, Carl took their two suitcases and, while T.S. Eliot explored, he
and Rachelle went inside. The cottage stuffy, he dumped the luggage and opened
windows. Rachelle checked the refrigerator, power left on, a half case of
Budweiser and a liter of white merlot were chilled. She checked the pantry—a few
canned goods but bare otherwise.

Carl took Rachelle in his arms. She allowed a kiss but stopped it when
his tongue began to probe.

“When?” he asked.

“Later.”

He got a beer from the refrigerator, went to the sun room, flipped on
the TV, and tuned in ESPN while Rachelle removed protective sheets from the
furniture and unpacked.

Finished, she called Larry's Marina to confirm
Esther II
was out
of dry dock, ready for pickup. Larry advised she was in the water, ready to go.

Carl drove her to Larry's, dropped her off, and told her he would go to
the grocery store for eggs, milk, etc., meet her back at the cottage.

At Larry's, Rachelle and T.S. boarded
Esther II
, and, the
cottage at the opposite end of the Lake, rather than sail, Rachelle started the
11 HP diesel engine and navigated a leisurely five knots to the cottage
mooring.

Esther II
tied off,
bobbing gently, Rachelle returned to the cottage, finished unpacking then began
to zap water for a cup of tea but scratched that and instead poured a glass of
white merlot.

Savoring the wine, she noted the time, 6:15. She wondered where Carl was,
had a hunch, dismissed it and hungry, opened a can of tuna and shared it with
T.S. After eating she went to the porch, sat on the rattan sofa and T.S. joined
her.

She had brought a few remaining Com. 501 student projects to finish before
considering final grades. Sipping merlot, she picked up a project and read the
cover page:

Com. 501

Dr. Rachelle Zannes

Seth Trudow

She paused and looked out at the lake. She remembered the call from Mr.
Trudow's eccentric friend after which she went to the hospital to see him. Then
she remembered things more distant: The first day of class, his demeanor, his
“poem” answers. Their first conference meeting in her office, when they had talked
of his project and her thinking s
omeone special has been met.

She shook that off. In her years of teaching, there had always been students
she remembered, those who stood out like special days in ones' life.
No time
for journeys into that unknown, not at this point in your career.
She flipped
the page and began to read:

BEN'S STORY

by Seth Trudow

Prologue

I, Mrs. Charles Archer, am the mother of Benjamin

Archer. Ben wanted desperately to be a writer but a terrible thing
happened on the way to his dream. This is a story I found among the few effects
that he left behind. Many small items, nothing of worldly significance. For you
see, Benjamin, like the birds of the air, was not a gatherer of things but rather
a giver, living for the day, never fretting over worldly possessions. Taking no
fear for this or that, in love with life, he never looked back. He only looked
forward. Here it is then, “Ben's Story.”

T.S. settling on her lap, Rachelle sipped merlot and continued to read.
The story is a story within a story about Benjamin Archer. His mother has found
a manuscript that he was working on titled “That Green Feeling”. Written in
first person, the antagonist of “That Green Feeling” is Matt James, a freshman
at Rathmore Prep. Flunking English, he is required to take extra instruction so
that he might continue to his sophomore year. His wealthy stepfather arranges
summer tutoring. Matt, fifteen, his tutor is Abigail Fuller. She is an
attractive woman, forty years old, married, no children. She is an English
teacher at the elementary school on Nantucket Island. Matt's parents divorced
when he was young, Matt lived with his grandmother on Nantucket, attended the
elementary school there. Abigail assigns Matt weekly writing assignments to
improve his English, spelling, composition. When he is around her, he
experiences uncontrollable urges to touch her. He calls the urges “that green
feeling”. He finds himself thinking of Abigail all the time. Her honey-brown
hair, flowing to her shoulders, excites him. Abigail's husband, Boris, is a
real estate salesman. Matt senses that Abigail is lonely. When Boris is
present, she is tense. One day he noticed a bruise on her cheek. He dreams of a
beautiful spring day when they go on a picnic. Birds sing. Water gurgles over
stones. Everything in harmony, he holds her hand. They make love on the grass.
He awakens from the dream and knows he must do something, anything.

Rachelle noted that the story ended abruptly in the middle of a page.
She read the epilogue which was part of Seth's overall story:

EPILOGUE

So there it is, unfinished, “That Green Feeling.” We will never know
how the story would have ended. For you see, Ben just recently graduated from
high school, a notice came in the mail. He was drafted by the Army. He went
willingly. And as you now know, this story of Ben's ended like a pistol shot to
the head. He was slaughtered, many years ago, in Viet Nam. Never had the
opportunity to finish his story. I, a mother, may be prejudiced but I can't
help thinking my Ben, after he had tended to the noise of life for a few years,
experiencing the joys, the sorrows, would have been a good writer. Perceptive,
compassionate, loved life so much, did he. Fascinated by the smallest things,
the color of a leaf, the feel of water, the smell of baking bread, the sounds
of a warm summer night, he savored life. It makes me sad but also bitter. I
wonder how many have died short of the master plan. Or is that a woeful myth
too. I wonder about all those who have died in wars past, lined up like sticks
of corn by drunken generals in smelly tents dreaming of another star,
politicians coveting an election. I wonder what it was like in Viet Nam, if my
Ben thought, when he went there, he would be killed, die in that rot so someone
could say he never lost a war. Warriors of Bubba and the good ole boy to
deliver votes and a piece of the Big Blond. Millions of lives have been offered
up over the centuries for a title of land, a gold star, a neighbor's wife. I fear
we are on the path to our own destruction. Trained killers killing each other
over lines on a map, destroying the air, earth, the place we all live. Kill
kill kill, WIN! So the hags of war blend their deadly brew and the great
unwashed sigh and the world goes on. But when contemplating the drugged beasts
of power that sacrificed my Ben on the altar of gluttony, I wonder how many
“voices” have been lost and for what and why and for whose glory? I don't know.
I look around and wonder, “Is it all a glorious accident or are we a little
speck in the grandness, alone or just another in a billion specks of nothing. More
cruel, if life is meaningless, if this going-about-living-business, rutting a
few years over a few scraps of sensual pleasure, a thousand years of tin ears
to the universe and nothing, is life worth it? In any case, I fear that we as a
species should be much further along by now. If there is a God, He must weep.

THE END

Rachelle held the manuscript to her breast, stood and walked to the
dock. She sat on the stern of
Esther II
and studied the sky, gray
streaked, turning into night. Stars were beginning to appear, an emerging
crescent moon.