Truths of the Heart (42 page)

Looking at Tony, he told him he wanted him to have his paintings.

Tony beside himself, “You give-a em me? Oh boy, thank-a you. Where
a-you go?”

“New Zealand.”

“Hope you like sheep.”

Seth chuckled.

“You go-a with that beauti one, honey brown hair?”

“Tony, how did you know?”

“I see everything, she's a sumthing.”

“I love her more than living.”

“Good-a for you. Get away from that other one, that crazy one.”

“You do see everything, don't you.”

“When-a you go?”

“I'll let you know, but soon, couple weeks.”

Back in his apartment, a knock at Seth's door surprised him. He
wondered if it might be Tony or maybe Rachelle. He went to the door. Laura.
Mascara smeared, black trench coat, hands in pockets, she stared at him.

“What do you want?”

She brushed past him. “I saw that bitch drop you off last night.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Fuck you don't.”

“Leave pleased.”

“I'm going to the police. I have a copy of that video.”

“Go, there is nothing to report. Whatever there is between Rachelle and
me, Carl's death was an accident.”

“Liar.”

“You don't get it, do you Laura.”

“So what are you and that bitch sneaking around for?”

“We're not sneaking around.”

“Liar.”

Seth told her she could do whatever she wanted. He was leaving town and
she could shove off, move on, get a life, drop dead.

“What do you mean you're leaving town?”

“None of your business.”

He went to the door, opened it and turned to her. “Please leave now.”

Laura pulled a hand gun from her trench coat pocket, pointed it at his chest.
Blank green eyes burning, through clenched teeth, she said, “Shut the fucking
door.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Up early, excitement rampant, after cappuccino, Rachelle had a thought.
She would surprise Seth. She drove to Allan Street, parked a block away, and
walked to his apartment. Near the stairwell entrance, she noticed that familiar
black sport's car parked next to the curb. No. Couldn't be. She entered the
building, made her way up the stairs, stepped lightly back the hallway to the
apartment door.

Voices.

Before knocking she listened:

Seth: “Laura, Laura, Laura.”

A rustling sound, a woman's hysterical laughing, the F-word woman's voice:
“What did you tell the good professor? Would you pretty please pose for me?” F-word
woman howled in short barks, then said: “Did you lay your favorite line on the
bitch, 'let's start with a portrait?'”

Rachelle stumbled backward, backed away, bolted down the stairs, got in
her car and sped off.

Twenty minutes later, home, she fell up the stairs into the kitchen.
She locked the door. She paced. She paced. Her mind a blur, she stumbled to the
bar and poured herself a glass of white merlot. Maybe she dreamt it, maybe….

She dialed Seth's cell phone.

“Hello bitch, caller ID.” Laura howled.

Rachelle dropped the phone to the floor.

She staggered down to the pier. She looked at the water. She looked around.
Where was she? Who was she? She jumped in the water. Up to her neck, she looked
around. Her glass of wine gone, she climbed up on the dock. Sat. Sat. Sat on
the edge. Feet in the water, shoes soaked.

She went back to the house, stripped, poured another glass of wine, swigged
tequila from a bottle.

You fool. You ass. It's been a plot from the beginning. No wonder he
didn't want you to spend the night.

Pointing to her stomach, she screamed, “AND WHAT ABOUT THIS!”

She thought of calling Kim. She couldn't. She drank until she passed
out.

Just after midnight, she awoke on the sofa. Still nude, head splitting,
she wanted not to be awake. To be dead. She made cappuccino, spiked it heavily
with brandy. Sipping, the brandy taking effect, she wondered again if maybe she
had dreamt it all. She looked at the phone. She looked at the keypad. She looked.
Caller ID. A thought: The pay phone at the park, just a half mile away. She
pulled on sweats and drove there, pulled to the phone, deposited coins then
pressed Seth's cell number.

Biting her nails, she anticipated Laura answering.

A strange male voice: “Hello.”

Had she pressed the right number?

Male: “Hello.”

“I'm sorry, I must have the wrong number.”

“Who were you calling?”

“Seth Trudow.”

“You got the right number, lady, who is this?”

“Who is this?”

“Detective Sid Kraus, Lansing Police Department.”

She hung up. Stunned in a schizophrenic moment, she thought of driving to
Seth's.

Are you nuts? The police … what would … no! Probably drug related
anyway, they both were … both!

Pounding the steering wheel, driving, she mumbled: “This is insane. A cheap
movie, a penny arcade, historical recording, Movie Tone Newsreel, an O. Henry
ending, but not a dream. My god!”

Home, she drank herself unconscious.

Up in the morning, she made a cup of cappuccino then staggered to retrieve
the morning newspaper, took it to the kitchen table, sat, and going was cartoon
reality, she couldn't breathe, couldn't read, flipped on the TV. The station
tuned to NBC, a local news cut-in was in progress.

Rachelle immediately noticed, yes, video of Tony's Deli. A female
announcer's voice: “Responding to reports of gun shots from Tony's Deli owner
Tony Leeoda, Lansing Police discovered the bodies of two people early this
morning. The couple were apparently the victims of a murder suicide. Detectives
confirmed that forensics showed the same weapon was used in both deaths. Deli
owner Tony Leeoda had this to say.”

Video of Tony speaking: “Couple have-a some big argue just-a before the
big bang happen last night. Locks-a changed just-a few weeks ago. Too bad-a
cause-a the tenant had-a give me notice, was a plan to move New Zealand.”

Close up TV announcer: “Dead are Seth Trudow, a M.S.U. student, and Laura
Toth, a local photographer. Police confirm Trudow was shot by Toth who then
committed....”

Rachelle fainted.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The next day Rachelle went to Tony Leeoda and introduced herself. He knew
her already. They talked. Tony told her that Seth was so looking forward to
going to New Zealand with her, had given him his paintings, which he offered to
share with her.

Rachelle wept softly.

They talked. Seth had no known relatives. Rachelle wanted a proper
burial for Seth. Tony knew what to do, would take care of it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Two Weeks Later

Summer evening cool, Rachelle sat at her Rodin spot. A gust of cool
wind passed over her face. A loneliness unknown, she noticed a taste, not of
tongue, but of that last autumn, the one song writers write about. She opened
her journal and wrote:

If I had only knocked on his apartment door....

She retreated into her well-trained intellect and looked for a pattern
of reasoned thought in her intellectual training that would make the sorrow go
away. She wrote:

Truth is dead. Truth and time and life are intertwined. Life cannot
exist outside of time. Equally, time cannot exist outside of life. Take away
time and there is no life. Take away life and there is no time. The Universe
exists because it is set in time. Time is the substance of the Universe. Matter
is finite living. Beyond the stars is only time. Likewise are thoughts from the
mind....

She stopped then wrote:

This sorrow is hungry. This sorrow sucks at the flesh.

Her eyes fixed in the non-focused stare of the dead, she couldn't cry.
She wrote:

Cry for the living, not the dead.

She thought of how sweet and comforting life's end would be. Her father
was there, her mother, now Seth. She wrote:

And here am I, left to rot on a stinking sick planet filled with
peddlers of promises. Please, I want to be with you. Please don't leave me here
to rot with the dollar world. If I had only knocked on your door … how could I
have doubted you, been such a fool?

She paused then wrote:

You sweet young prince, your presence is all around me, in me. Your
words, rummaging around here with the living are in me, the living, do you hear
me?

She remembered what he had told her in one of their intimate moment about
writing
: words never live until read by another human being … a book not
read is like a life unborn.

She touched her belly and whispered, “You will live on, a gift to the world.
I will see to it.”

She took up her journal and, in the fading light of dusk, read again a
poem she had torn from a book of poems.

TO W.P. by George Santayana

I

Calm was the sea to which your course you kept,

Oh, how much calmer than all southern seas!

Many your nameless mates, whom the keen breeze

Wafted from mothers that of old have wept.

All souls of children taken as they slept

Are your companions, partners of your ease,

And the green souls of all these autumn trees

Are with you through the silent spaces swept.

your virgin body face its gentle breath

Untainted to the gods. Why should we grieve,

But that we merit not your holy death?

We shall not loiter long, your friends and I;

Living you made it goodlier to live,

Dead you will make it easier to die

II

With you a part of me hath passed away;

For in the peopled forest of my mind

A tree made leafless by this wintry wind

Shall never don again its green array.

Chapel and fireside, country road and bay,

Have something of their friendliness resigned;

Another, if I would, I could not find,

And I am grown much older in a day.

But yet I treasure in my memory

Your gift of charity, and young heart's ease,

And the dear honor of your amity;

For these once mine
, my life is rich with these.

And I scarce know which part may greater be,

What I keep of you, or you rob of me.

EPILOGUE

Monday, August 25

An unseasonable early frost rested upon the land and crispness held the
morning air. It was the first day of fall classes at Michigan State. Rachelle,
a halo of expectant calm about her, upbeat, arrived at the Olds Hall classroom
where last year she had launched Com. 501. The course renewed for another year,
twenty students had signed up. Scheduled this semester for Monday and Wednesday,
the class began at 9:00 A.M.

Her honey-colored hair cascading loosely to her shoulders, Rachelle
wore a brown knit suit. Unsure how she would react to the class, walking
deliberately, she entered the class room. The students hushed. She placed her
briefcase on the small wooden desk at the front and looked over the class. All
the chairs were occupied except Seth's. She noticed, standing by the window,
looking outward, a male student.

Numbness steeling her, she felt as if she stood in a giant vaulted cathedral,
and she wanted to be there.

The male student at the window turned and sat in Seth's chair.

She took a piece of white chalk, and with a gentle flourish wrote on
the chalkboard:

Dr. Rachelle Zannes

Com. 501

She put the chalk in the tray and, turned back to the class, smiled,
took everyone in for a moment, then said, “Hi.”

“Hi, hello, good morning.”

“Before we get started, I wanted to read you a sample of writing that
one of last year's students wrote for this class. Not only did he get an A, his
story is to be published by Triune Books.”

The End

About the Author

TRUTHS OF THE HEART is G. L. Rockey's latest novel. He has
written three other works of fiction: THE JOURNALIST (revised and re-released
in paperback as REDACTED), a five star thriller with a "freighting ring of
truth"; TIME & CHANCE, a mystery/suspense set in Nashville; and a
collection of sixteen "off-the-wall" short stories, BATS IN THE
BELFRY, BELLS IN THE ATTIC. Also published is a non fiction book, FROM THE BACK
OF THE HOUSE: MEMORIES OF A STEAK HOUSE CLAN.