Truths of the Heart (33 page)

He reached to shake her hand.

She took it. They exchanged glances and, the last glance lingering, she
broke it off and released her hand. “Good night Seth, don't get wet.”

He opened the door, got out, and leaning in from the rain, said,
“Monday, 7:00, your office, right.”

“Yes.”

Pulling away onto Michigan Avenue, wipers flapping, she asked herself,
are
you insane?

She glanced in the rear view mirror. Red and blue lights flashing, it appeared
that a police car was pulling to the front of Tony's Deli. Must be a drunk
driver, She thought as she noticed a little short man run out the front door of
the Deli.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Tony ran out of his deli and looked to the back entrance. He shouted
Seth's name.

Seth, inside the stairwell, looked out through the rain and called,
“Tony. What's up?”

Tony beckoned, “Come,” and went inside his store.

Seth jogged to the entrance and entered the same time the police did.

Tony said to the two police officers, “Some fruitcake nut throws a dead
cat through my front window. Nuts everywhere.”

Seth had an idea who had thrown the cat through the window.

Tony looked at the officers, “And now, mama mia, now you guys just-a come.”

After the police surveying the crime scene, took some notes, Tony calmed,
Seth went to his apartment. There, on the kitchen table, a steak knife pinned a
rag doll to the table top. Next to the doll, carved in the wood, a pentagram.

He looked around. Laura gone, he went down to see Tony. Cleaning up the
mess, Tony said, “What in hecks happen around here, America?”

“I'm not sure.”

“I am … too much hay.”

“Tony, I think I need to get the locks changed on my apartment door.”

“Whys a for?”

“I think somebody made a copy of my door key.”

“Okay by a-me, but you-a play you-a pay, $50.00 bucks. Too much hay, I
tell you.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Driving through intense rain, thunder and lightning, all the party
guests had departed when Rachelle returned home. Carl at the bar, drink in
hand, puffed a Kool, and watched a baseball game on ESPN. Rachelle began
emptying ash trays, straightening chairs.

Carl slurred, “Who `as `at little twerp you kept `awnng over all night,
gave a ride home?”

“I told you, a student.”

“Dip … he a fag?”

“I don't think so.”

“I never trust a guy who don't drink.”

“What's that mean?”

“Drinks ginger ale, thought he was going to ask me to put a cherry in
it.” He laughed, “Shirley Temple kind a guy.”

Mulling that, Rachelle emptied ashes into a plastic bag.

Carl said, “Either that or he's a recovering alcoholic, them guys get
one sniff and they're gone for a couple weeks.”

Rachelle reached for an ash tray on the bar.
Couldn't be.

Carl grabbed her hand, pulled her to him, and began sucking her neck.

“Carl, stop it.”

“No.” He groped her breasts.

“Carl, you're hurting me, I told you.”

He probed further, “How 'bout a blow job.”

“Stop it, Carl, no.”

He bear-hugged her with one arm and began tearing at her blouse.

“You're tearing....”

“Playing for keeps.” He thrust his hand beneath her slacks, thrust a
finger in her, sucked at her neck.

“Stop it!” She beat him off, grabbed a glass ashtray, stood back and, holding
the ashtray like a club, said menacingly, “No!”

He laughed, waved her off, and went upstairs.

Later that night, lightning and thunder, Carl's snores echoing through
the house, Rachelle in her white silk pajamas, sitting on the downstairs sofa,
T.S. by her side, took up her writing journal and wrote:

I find in Carl a revulsion akin to … I can't say it. I realize now that
it was never a giving but merely a taking....

Her thoughts went to Seth, his request for her to model. She whispered,
“You're playing with fire, Z.” Then she remembered what Carl had said, “Shirley
Temple kind a guy.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A one-eye-open-on-the-sofa kind of night, up early Sunday morning, Rachelle
fed T.S. Then, skipping her touch-toe exercises, she took a swim, and returned
to the kitchen.

Oh joy.

Carl, looking like a hundred-pound sack of wet potatoes in a blue robe,
sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. Black circles under his eyes,
he said, “That Senator Adaven is a jerk, fucker is going to try and fry my
ass.”

Unable to look at him, she prepared a cup of English Toffee cappuccino.

He said, “You hear me?”

She took the comic section, stuck her nose in the paper, and sipped.

“What's a matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Pissed about last night?”

Nothing.

“How 'bout making me some coffee?”

Nothing.

“Fuck you.”

He prepped a pot of coffee then said, “I'll be going back to Detroit tomorrow
morning.”

She continued to read the comics.

More time, “Be in meetings most of the week, lawyers, getting ready for
those hearing. After I testify, I'm going to Barcelona.”

She looked up.

“NFL Europe, Barcelona vs. Berlin. I'll probably stay over a few days.

Going with Coach Ludwig, he's going to look at some Detroit prospects,
talk to a few of them.” Pouring himself a cup of coffee he rambled, perhaps the
trip to Barcelona would do his health some good.

“Perhaps.”

“What's that mean?”

“What part of perhaps do you not understand?”

“Bitch” under his breath, then he went back to harping on Senator
Adaven.

Rachelle said casually, “If you did nothing wrong, what can they do?”

“Dah. Thought you was a college professor.”

She looked up, futile to engage, “You said a million times it's all a
lie. Just tell them the truth.”

“Shut up.”

“Don't tell me to shut up, ever. And if you ever maul me again like you
did last night … I'll … I'll....”

“You'll what?”

“I'll file for a divorce.” She stood and went to the sink.

 
He followed her, said, “Fuck ya
will, bitch.”

He flicked the back of her head lightly with his finger tips.

“Stop that!”

T.S. Eliot hissed loudly. Carl kicked at him. He ran upstairs. Carl continued
flicking his hands at the back of Rachelle's head, “Bitch.”

She turned to smack his face but he deflected the swing and, smiling,
he flicked her nose with finger tips. “Wanta go a few round, bitch, huh, huh?”

“I said stop!” She swung again at him. He blocked the swing and in
doing so stiff armed her nose with a quick jab. Blood trickled from left
nostril.

Stunned, she dropped to her knees. “You bastard.”

“Go wipe your nose, it's bleeding. I got a golf game at 10:00.” He
turned and walked toward the spiral staircase.

She looked, lying on the cutting board, at a kitchen knife.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Wee hours of Monday, having spent a sleepless few hours on the sofa
with T.S. Eliot, Rachelle heard Carl come in, stumble around, obviously drunk,
mumbling under his breath.

She heard him come close where she lay, could smell the reeking drunk
on him. She tensed, gripped, held under the Afghan that covered her, the
kitchen knife.

After a moment, he moved away and she heard him stumbling up the spiral
staircase.

The sun rising, morning light coming through the windows, Rachelle was awakened
by the upstairs sound of Carl showering, dressing. Then footsteps as he came
downstairs. As she feigned sleep, she could hear the footsteps getting closer.
His breathing. She felt him looking at her. She gripped the kitchen knife.
Waited.

She felt T.S. move then jump to the floor. Silence then she heard
footsteps going away and through the kitchen. The garage door opening, his car
started, backing out the garage, the door closing.

She got up: it was 6:00 A.M.

Drained, too exhausted to do touch toes, she fed T.S., retrieved the
newspaper, made cappuccino, and couldn't eat. After scanning the front page,
she went upstairs, showered and looked in the mirror. Her nose a little puffy
from Carl’s blow, she rehearsed to T.S., “I ran into a closet door in the
dark.”

T.S. scooted off like he knew the lie.

She dressed in loose khaki slacks, short sleeve light blue shirt, tan
loafers, and went downstairs to the kitchen. After assuring goodbyes to T.S.,
she drove to campus.

Her scheduled symphony board luncheon a tedious discussion about budgets,
Rachelle's scheduled faculty meeting in Dean Rait's office ended with few
decisions and, a week before summer classes were to begin, plans for another
meeting on Wednesday.

Walking to her Bessey Hall office, warm late afternoon sunlight covered
the deserted campus with soft whispers and long shadows in a windless blending
of leafy green. Inside her office, a spurt of hope, she telephoned Simone,
thanked her for the wonderful evening, and asked about the letter she had
promised to write to Triune for Seth. The letter was on the way.

A small lamp illuminating her desk, Rachelle looked at her watch, 7:15,
Seth was late. She wondered if he might not come.

Maybe it would be better if he didn't.

The thought accompanied by a pang, she whispered, “Pang? A pang of
what? Is this a dime novel? You are insane. This is all insane.”

There came a tap at her open door. She looked up, it was Seth. He wore
a gray da Vinci T-shirt, jeans, brown deck shoes.

She said, “Seth, I was beginning to think....”

“I had to see someone about some etchings.”

“Oh, of course, was she interesting?”

“Not really.”

She felt silly.
Silly, that is really interesting.
She nodded to
a chair in front of her desk.

“Please.”

The window open, the air sweet, he looked at her nose.

“Don't mind my asking, but what happened to your nose?”

“I ran into a door?”

“A door as in...?” he thought Carl but didn't say anything.

Rachelle felt the uneasiness and was amused at herself for being uncomfortable
in the situation, uneasy with some kind of … yes, anticipation. She stood and
walked to the window, “Seth, I talked to Simone and she has written a letter,
it’s on the way.”
Why are you standing at the window?
She turned and
leaned back against the sill and looked at him.

Seth said, “Beautiful evening out there. Why don't we go for a walk?”

Surprised, but not surprised: “What?”

“You were looking out the window, it's beautiful out. Why don't we go
for a walk?”

After a pause, “Why not.”

Outside, along the Red Cedar, they walked easily along the paved path that
wove along the river's edge. The evening perfect, the smell of freshly cut
grass scented the fragrance of flowering buds all mixed in the calm evening air
that settled on the land like a distant door closing.

Seth wondered how one could make this last forever.

Walking, absorbed in each other, they talked of Simone, writing, art, Rachelle's
father's passion for paintings, sailing. They talked of writing, publishing.
They talked about T.S. Eliot (the famous poet and Rachelle's cat). They talked
about music. They talked about traveling, Seth’s time in the Middle East,
Europe; Her time in New Zealand, the sabbatical, lecturing at the University of
Auckland. Then the talk fell silent and, Rachelle with her hands in her hip
pockets, they just wandered along the grassy banks of the Red Cedar and, like
the meandering water's silence, didn't feel awkward, just a oneness in direction
and soon the sun would be setting and to no one’s surprise they had reached
Rachelle's Rodin spot.

She said, “This is my favorite spot.”

“I can see why.”

“I call it my Rodin spot.”

“
The Thinker
.”

“Yes.”

He thought of Rodin's other works:
The Cathedral, The Age of Bronze,
The Kiss
.