Truths of the Heart (19 page)

Rachelle said to Carl, “Want something to eat?”

He grumbled, “Rabbit food, I need a drink,” and headed for the bar.
There, he said to the bartender, name tag: Rhonda, “Hi Ron, rum and coke, make
it a double.”

“I'm sorry sir, wine only, red or white … and we have sherry.”

“What?”

Rachelle had followed, elbowed Carl, said, “I'll have white.”

Carl said, “Red.”

Drinks in hand she and Carl moved where writer Blane held court. A hum
of conversion, a group surrounding him, Blane’s short red wooly-hair electric,
his skin like dried beef jerky, his eyebrows raised, he presented Rachelle with
a yellow tooth smile as he continued talking to the group.

Rachelle noted that his fingers fidgeting like they longed to be
pressing something. His shabby brown slacks appeared slept in as did his black
& white hounds' tooth jacket. A red polo shirt, two buttons open at the
top, revealed a bush of rusty chest hair. Shifting his weight, he alternately
slipped on and off his loose-fitting cordovan loafers.

Rachelle whispered to Carl, “Projects a novelist image quite well,
don't you think?”

“Or pimp.”

“Don't you dare embarrass me.”

“What's my reward?”

“Come on, let’s meet him.”

Drinks in hand, they moved closer and Rachelle saw, practically on her knees
in front of Blane, Elisabeth Sweetwater.

Elisabeth appears to have greased herself into those jeans
, Rachelle thought.

Blane sipped from a tall glass which contained a clear colored liquid
on ice.

Carl whispered, “Looks like this dick-head has booze, why not us.”

Blane overheard Carl and said, “Canada Dry my dear sir, on the rocks, I
never drink alcohol, unless of course I need a kick in the ass to get the creative
juices flowing. In that case, I may have a belt just before sunrise.”

Laughing shrilly, Elisabeth touched Blane's arm. “You're priceless.”

Rachelle whispered to Elisabeth, “Careful Lizzy, your spurs are
showing.”

Liz put a hand to the side of her mouth and whispered, “Bitch.”

Rachelle smiled, “What brings you all the way from Central Michigan,
Dr. Sweetwater?”

Elisabeth ignored her, noticed Carl. “Oh, my god, a real live
broadcasting star, Carl Bostich.” She turned to Blane. “Frank, have you met the
voice of the Detroit Lions?”

“I don't think so, but I have a feeling I'm going too. I do love
soccer.” He grabbed Carl's hand.

Carl looked like he might throw up.

Blane, extending his right hand, looked at Rachelle with wide and
wanting blue watery eyes. “And you must be Mrs. Bostich.”

Taking his hand, “Yes, how do you do. I've read all your books.”

He drew her in, locked her in a stare, and held on, “Which one did you
like best?”

Carl snarled, “
Honey Comes Late
,” and headed back to the bar.

“What a nice man,” said Blane.

Elisabeth said to Blane, “So Frank, what do you think of the new wave
of writers.”

Blane, seemingly in some mild pain, said, “Alas, I worry about today's word-slingers,
wasting gutless hours and days, dying for their art, turning out mounds of
ca-ca, and coming in the end to know they never had what it took? It is the bad
ones who never know, though, that's the tragedy.”

He sipped then went on, “The problem today is too many artist wannabes,
whatever, don't have a twat's ounce of creativity. I think it's fame, or maybe
money, that's it, money, they want money. What it will buy, you know, stuff,
cars, yachts, airplanes, sex urging in the night and they think the urging is unique
… you know they read about what artists are like—moody, drink a lot, feel sorry
for themselves, kind of dippy, so they think, I'm like that so I must be an
artist. I can't paint, or write, or sing, or eat turkey off a bone … but I can
cock a doodle doo standing on my head, so I must be an artist.”

Awed silence.

A tall skinny male said, “Could you be more specific.”

“No.”

Light laughter

Blane said, “Check that, yes. A naked mud wrestler, sliding her bottom across
a ten-foot strip of canvas, voila, a masterpiece, and the critics swoon and
write about the juxtaposition of this and that crack.”

Rachelle listened to Elisabeth’s loud chuckle and whispered, “Careful.”

Blane sipped his Canada Dry, “Ah well, it's humanity that gets screwed.
The human race gets a lot of crap pawned off as art and the poor will do
nothing because the poor never do anything except get poorer and have the gall
to say they are blessed in their pity poorness, hungriness, and homelessness,
and unbathedness, and their great numberness in the white bath house of the
rich who got the gift from a queen or a king or a Hollywood father, birthed
with a golden fork somewhere placed on a lip or cheek or a cavity where the sun
don't shine. Forget brains, art, gifts, kiss his ring and smile. A gift of
brain for the book or number, doctor or lawyer, why this art, this beggar of
money, charade in beggars’ sackcloth, whining, pretending, lazy for nothing …
work? What is work? Capitalists say work is making things people can use,
benefit from, make the world go round. Get a job, play basketball, swing a bat,
call a strike, Christ's sake, print money … make a tire, car, stove, give me
money. Art. When you're done playing there, sonny go get a real job, do
something useful. Make something people can get their hands on, eat, fill a
niche or an itch, money money money.”

A plump female in pink, “Why Mr. Blane, you sound bitter.”

“Bitter, me, hell no, I'm just a writer looking for a warm place to
bury my bone.”

Pump female again, “But don't you take money for your salacious art?”

“Jesus Christ, save me, what have we been talking about for the last five
minutes?” He turned his back to her and Elisabeth, standing close, got bumped.
Red wine in hand, she took the opportunity to splash Rachelle's white dress.

Elisabeth, feigning surprise, “Oh milk toast darn, excuse me, I'm so
sorry, Z. Just put some club soda on it, come right out.”

Blane stepped in and said to Rachelle, “I need a break, some fresh
air.” He looked deeply into Rachelle's eyes. “Could I have a moment alone with
you, my dear, please?” He took her hand and stepped to an enclosed sun room.

Blane, looking more deeply into Rachelle's eyes, “Who is that obnoxious
asshole woman in black?”

“Oh, nothing, a former colleague.”

“I'm sorry about your dress.”

“It's nothing.”

“So my dear, which one of my books did you like best?”

“I liked them all.”

“Bless you.” Blane kissed the back of Rachelle's fingers and noticed
Carl, watching from the vicinity of the bar. “And what do you do, my dear,
besides minding to that hulk of a man over there hanging on the bar?”

“I’m a professor here at the university, communication.”

“You'll have to give me some pointers.”

“Anytime.”

Lust dancing in his eyes, still holding her hand, he said, “I'd like to
eat you.”

She rolled her eyes, “Hardly.”

“You know, my latest book is being made into an HBO movie. We're looking
for a female lead as we speak. Ever done any acting, my dear?”

“I'm flattered, but I don't think so.”

Blane said, “You would make a stunning heroine.”

Rachelle chuckled, “No no, not me, I'm afraid not, acting is not my cup
of tea.”

“But you could learn, dear, there's nothing to it.”

“I don't think so.”

“It's just requires a little honey licking.” He wiggled his wiry
eyebrows and sipped Canada Dry.

Rachelle blushed.

Blane looked at her bosom and whispered in her ear, “With those buns who
cares if you can act.”

Amused, a red tinge at her cheeks, she smiled.

People gathering around, to Blane's displeasure, and he whispered in
her ear, “Here comes the herd.”

Elisabeth being one of the gatherers, smirked a look at Rachelle. “You should
get some soda on that stain, dear.”

Rachelle smiled.

Blane held up his glass, sighed, said, “I really do need something more
in this drink.” He looked at Rachelle and mouthed, Or eat.

She looked down.

He chuckled, put forth his glass, and touched Rachelle's arm. “Would you
mind, anything will do … a glass of that wine or sherry or whatever the hell
that blonde is serving over there.”

Elisabeth, grabbing his glass, said, “I'll get it.”

The reception ended shortly after 10 P.M. A light rain, wet leaves covering
the roadway, Carl with a wine and sherry load on, nevertheless refused to let
Rachelle drive.

Except for a burp or two, smoking a Kool, driving, Carl was silent. Finally
Rachelle said, “That Blane is a character.”

“You were fawning over that phony son-of-a-bitch pretty good.”

“I was not.”

“Looked like a teenager sucking up to rock star’s jock strap.”

“You're insane.”

“You're nothing but a whore.”

“And you are a jerk asshole.”

“I don't know why I drove all the way over here to go that goddamn goon
moo-u party.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“And I have to turn around and drive back to Detroit tomorrow morning and
for what … if you'd move to Detroit....”

“Shut UP!”

Windshield wipers flapping, slick streets, lights a glare, Rachelle, married
just a little over two months, for the first time, thought of the D word. The
thought made her slightly sick to the stomach. Then she realized she was
actually afraid of Carl and how stupid the whole thing was.

****

Home, Carl sulking, he made himself a rum and Coke, turned on ESPN, stretched
out on the sofa, and watched a college football game.

Followed by T.S., Rachelle went upstairs where she undressed, drew a
tub of hot water, lowered herself into the tub and, as the water rose around
her, leaned her head back and closed her eyes:
Get through this school year,
then in the spring, you have to do something.

To escape that thought quagmire, her thoughts went to Blane:
He
thinks he is more than he is. Full of himself. Bet after a few drinks he has
trouble with his winkie … maybe not … I'll never know, don't have any desire
although I think he would like to get me in the sack … THINK! And I, naughty
naughty, had a fleeting thought … wonder how many coeds he'll....

She heard a noise and opened her eyes. Carl, naked, his hugeness stone
erect in her face, stood at the side of the tub.

Later than night, Carl zonked, snoring, she slipped out of bed and went
to the sitting room, took up her journal and wrote:

And you're the one with the Ph.D. What was that Kim said about you, a
brilliant mind, promise in affairs academia … but in affairs-of-the-heart, Dear
Z, you are a total disaster. This is like waking up and finding a stranger in
your bed. I don't know this person. Or did I know him and ... and what? Are you
a sucker for male largess? Yes, but not this way. Okay, maybe I made a mistake.
Not okay and not maybe. You made a lollapalooza. In Carl speak, fucked up big
time!

The question is now, how do you get out? I'll tell you how you'll get
out. DEAD. Write stupid on the blackboard one hundred times … make it five
hundred. You self-destruct Doc, big time, every time. What is it with you!!!
!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Through October, as the semester progressed, when Seth sought to make
eye contact with Rachelle in class, she ignored him, distant, detached, like she
was another person. He could see it in her expression, feel it in the way she
carried herself. He sensed she was trying to escape, get out, trapped, as if
some sci-fi movie monster, at arm's length, pursued her.

He thought he'd cut class to see if she noticed. He did. When he went to
the next class, nothing, she didn't know he was alive.

“Blah blah blah and nuts to it all,” he said and had cut class the last
two sessions.

To put this apparition behind him, out of his mind, glorious Indian summer
sun drenching the last Sunday in October, Seth determined an escape: get out in
nature and paint.

He quickly dressed—khaki trousers, gray sweat shirt, boots, packed up
his painting equipment and stopped in Tony's Deli. Tony not there, his wife Jo
waited on him. He bought a large bag of Corn Nuts, a Baby Ruth candy bar and a
quart of bottled water.

Determined to drown his restlessness, Seth took a city bus south to the
end of the route, then set out on foot up a slight hill, further, through sun
streaked trees, over fallen leaves turning a zillion shades of yellow, red,
sienna, magenta, past a shimmering pond. The sky a metallic cerulean blue,
titanium white puffy clouds, he walked past a large oak tree to an elevated
spot overlooking a falling fence around an old red barn with a duck pond in the
foreground. He stopped, set up his easel with an 8x12 canvas, opened his
paints, took a two-inch brush and began painting in broad strokes.