Truths of the Heart (6 page)

Killing time, Seth recalled a more personal reason for his interest in
this Com 501 class, maybe the most important—the untimely death of his sister
Natalie at the age of nineteen. An only sibling, she had wanted to become an
author. He often wondered what wondrous things she would have written,
discovered, offered. He remembered, living a Huckleberry Finn life in Traverse
City Michigan, the special relationship he had with Natalie. She, throughout
Seth's childhood, between smatterings of Mother Goose and Hans Christian
Anderson, read him poetry. To her soft voice he would fall asleep to the words
of Keats, Shelley, Dickinson, the poet's words were imprinted on his memory
like grain in drift wood. But it all ended when, just past Seth's sixteenth
birthday, Natalie, excited about majoring in English, studying literature,
becoming a writer, scheduled to begin classes in the fall at Central Michigan—a
drunk driver crossed the center line. She died instantly.

Beautiful Natalie's kindness, love, lost, never to be. Whittier's words
in
Maud Muller
:
For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest
are these: tt might have been,
haunted Seth to this day and he,
experimenting with alcohol at the time of her death, had not touched a drop
since.

He remembered, at the news of Natalie's death, his mother, Martha, a
high school English teacher, reciting Lord Byron:

“Whom the Gods love die young, was said of yore, And many deaths do
they escape by this: the death of friends, and that which slays even more—the
death of friendship, love, youth, all that is; and since the silent shore
awaits at last even those who longest miss the old archer's shafts, perhaps the
early grave which men weep over may be meant to save.”

Then there was his father, a Methodist minister, Reverend Walter C. Trudow.
At Natalie's funeral—a raw March day, the ground cold, brown, tears freezing on
Walter's raw cheeks, Seth remembered thinking,
If Lord Byron was right, God
sure doesn't love old dad? He has dumped him living in the garden of dead 'what
if' agony.

Months after the funeral, Seth could never forget his father's rage-filled
anger at the senseless death allowed by an absentee God, mumbling in his study,
fists shaking at the ceiling: “YOU, asleep at the wheel, huh? The damnable hair
in the soup. You could have prevented it if You had wanted to. The conclusion, YOU
didn't want to!”

Then, as it is when love is smashed in fate's chopper of lies, Walter
died.

Not suicide, never, he was a Christian, but self-inflicted
nevertheless, as if to please his God, drawn out death, purging original sin,
gold's dross puked to the surface; more cruel than a bullet in the mouth.

Seth was there when Walter came finally face to face with the master he
had served for a lifetime, thought he had earned special privileges from. His
father's last death rattling whisper, “Sorry Master, forgive my doubt.”

After ramming that moment though many years of thought, Seth came up with
the master's probable answer, “No, no special privileges here, get in line, lie
down with the lamb. So sorry my son, no exceptions, we are God, you must pay.”

And his father probable response, “Thank you, Master.”

Seth concluded that his father had chickened out.

Bitter, the present coalescing in nuggets of doubt, he often asked,
then and now, of an invisible presence: “Could we please, sometime soon, have
the punch line? Procreation, family, marriage, go and replenish the earth with
lovely little creatures possessed of free will so they can search for the
ultimate Truth? Truth? Who double-crossed whom? To prove what? You began the
enigma in the first place!!! What a lie, a dirty lie. What about the living?
You hate them? The Bible-thumping idiot praying for You to take the tornado further
north, away from his house, 'kill the neighbors across the road, just not me.'
Safe in the blood of others. Stomping the canvas of truth in dung-covered
boots, a private line to God, grubbing for a pissy pledge of gold. What is this
crazy insanity perpetuated on the world. This ruse written, east of the
Mediterranean and west of the Dead Sea, by old men and murdering kings.”

Seth remembered going to Natalie's grave site: in the winter dusting
snow from the granite headstone, in the spring placing flowers, in the summer
sitting with her, autumn, shuffling away leaves. It became so that he felt
comfortable there. More so than with the living. Maybe Lord Byron was right
after all, those who died young were the lucky ones. The living get to witness
the dung covered boots—trampling, trampling, trampling.

It was no surprise that Seth had developed a crusty shell but, no
matter the attempt at hardness, Natalie's giving spirit imbued him.

After graduating high school, guilt pangs pinging, Seth took a shot at theology.
Reasoning, penance for his cynicism, he attended, for six months, Grand Rapids'
Corner Stone Bible College.

But the senseless double-cross death of Natalie, his father's
bitterness, and divinity school's covering of blood wasn't for him. So, just
turned twenty, he joined the Air Force, serving two years as a communications
specialist aboard an AWACS aircraft. A few dollars saved, service completed, he
spent a year backpacking England, France, Italy, Greece, then the word—his
mother had died. He returned to Travis City, the Trudows had never owned a
home, living in parsonages; his mother was buried in a reserved plot next to
Walter in the Methodist Church cemetery where he last pastored. A small sum
saved, contemplating college, Seth applied to M.S.U. to work for a degree “in
something.”

After one semester, not a science, math or chemistry type, on probation
with a 1.9 grade point average, he was referred to an adviser. She asked what
he did that didn't cause him to be bored. He remembered, in younger years, his
mother had bought him a paint set. He dabbled in bliss for hours. “So,” said
adviser with a sure smile, “that would appear to be the ticket.” He switched to
fine arts. Now twenty-six, absorbed in painting, taking summer classes,
encouraged by his professors, nine months from his BA, he contemplated going to
the Chicago Institute of Art.

He glanced at the clock again, 8:15. He shook his head, “Amazing.” Killing
time, Seth scanned, next to the office's worn wood door, a colorful poster for
the Broadway musical CATS. Next to the poster was the office number, 204. Below
that was a black rectangular plastic name plaque that read in white letters,
DR.RACHELLE ZANNES. Below that was a six-inch silver sculpted fish. Engraved in
the center of the fish:

PISCES: Sensitive, tend toward artistic. Creators. Not power hungry,

humble and
modest. Desire to please, hold deep beliefs. Integrity. Easily hurt, carry self
doubt. Take emotional involvement seriously and will go to great lengths to
please a loved one.

“Air head... has to be,” he whispered.

He noted, next to the fish, another plaque with an engraved quote:
The
old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths … love and honor
and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice
….William Faulkner's 1949
Nobel Prize acceptance speech.

He whispered, “Head in the ground, feet firmly in the air.”

He looked, still further below, to a bumper sticker proclaiming:
meanings
are in people, not in words
.

With a pencil, Seth drew a big smiley face after “words” and wrote:
Trouble
is, all we gots is words.

He looked, next to the bumper sticker, an excerpt from an interview Dr.
Zannes had given the
Journal of Communication
:

“Outside the box thinking has become an inside-the-box cliché with RAP
music as a major paradigm shift. Hello!”

Seth whispered, “Definitely a cuckoo.”

He heard footsteps. He looked up. A young female approached. Pleasantly
plump, overload of stuff under her left arm, large white Styrofoam coffee cup
in her right hand, she looked like she had missed then been run over by a bus.
Black hair styled like a mop, brown eyes, she wore a short sleeve white blouse
with an M.S.U. frowning Spartan caricature on the left front pocket. Loose
black pants slopped over the tops of brown flip flops.

Seth watched as she stopped at the locked door to Zannes office, set
the Styrofoam cup on the floor, pluck a key from her front pants' pocket, and,
ignoring him, open the door.

Seth thought,
Please, tell me this is not Zannes.

She picked up her coffee cup, entered, flipped on overhead florescent lights,
and went to a blue metal desk that looked like a garbage truck had dropped a
full load on its top.

Seth followed her into a tight reception area that smelled like floor
wax.

He noticed, beyond the cluttered blue steel desk, a closed wooden door.
Turning, the female said, “Hey, I'm not open for business yet.”

“Sign says office hours start at 8:00 around here.”

“So?”

“It's 8:20.”

“So sue me.”

He looked at the name plaque that sat on the front edge of her desk:
KAY JACKSON, Communication Department Assistant.

He sighed under his breath, “Thank god.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

Kay unloaded her stuff on and around her desk, sat and said, “What is
it you want?”

“I'm looking for Dr. Zannes.”

“What for?”

“I need her signature.”

“For what?”

“I'm going to take her new grad class.”

“Oh, you are, are you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a graduate student?”

“No.”

“You'll have to get a special permission form filled out, get a copy
from….”

“Here's the form, all I need is Dr. Zannes' signature.”

Taking the form, “Are you matriculated?”

“No, but I'm baptized.”

Lips down-turned as if sniffing an offensive odor, she studied him for
five seconds. “I meant are you intending to go on to grad school?”

“I hadn't thought about it, but I meet all the requirements to take
Zannes' new course.”

She eagle eyed him. “Dr. Zannes.”

“Yes, sorry.”

Looking at the form, she said, “This is no good, you haven't followed
the directions, Dr. Zannes has to sign it before it goes to all these other
honchos.”

“It's okay, I checked.”

“You did, did you?”

“Why are you being so difficult?”

She handed back the form, “Dr. Zannes won't be in for another hour.”

“Just please give it to her, would you please, I have to be at work at
9:00.”

“It's a waste of time.”

“Why?”

“She won't sign it.”

“I'll wait, then.”

“Thought you had to go to work.”

“I'll be late.”

“She may not even come in today.”

“Will you give it to her or not?”

“I might.”

“'Something there is that doesn't like a wall, that sends the frozen-
round-swell under it, and spills the upper boulders in the sun, and makes gaps
even two can pass abreast.'”

Lower lip drooping, she gawked at him.

“Robert Frost,” Seth said then schmoozed, “I tried to reach Dr. Zannes
a zillion times, she never seems to be in, whatever, would you please get her
signature for me?”

She rolled the idea around. “Well, I gotta tell you, Z is a stickler
for details.”

“Z?”

“Zannes' handle around the department.”

“Pretty please.”

Delighted at the groveling, “Well, okay, I'll get it to her but I can't
promise anything … you can check, probably tomorrow, but, like I said, I doubt
Z will approve it.”

“I think she will, I'm sure of it.”

Kay slammed a desk drawer.

Leaving, Seth said, “I'll be back to pick it up. Bye and have a good
day.”

CHAPTER NINE

Rachelle awoke to the pulsing android voice of her alarm clock: “Monday
… August fifth … eight forty-five.”

Her normal wake-up set for 7:00 A.M., her third snooze reprieve had ended.
She wondered if the wee hour call from Carl was a dream, hallucination, or
real.
Stop the music. I can name that tune in three notes, it was real.
She
nudged T.S., “Time to make the doughnuts.”

He stretched as Rachelle stood beside the bed, fluffed her hair,
discarded Carl's dress shirt and, nude, began her fifty-a-day touch-toe
calisthenics.

T.S., deadpan, watched her.

On touch-toe number two, Rachelle recalled a dream just before the
alarm went off the first time: on the fifty-yard line of Ford Field, cameras
flashing, crowd cheering, a nude football player chased her across the
fifty-yard line and tackled her. In there somewhere, Denton Ruffin, dressed
only in his black striped NFL official's shirt, blew his silver whistle.